


Champion of the Veil

by edlothia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Babysitting, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Bisexual Male Character, Disaster Hawke, Exes, F/M, Feels, Gen, Good Templars (Dragon Age), Grey Wardens, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Hawke (Dragon Age) Sided with Mages, Hawke in Dragon Age: Inquisition, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inquisitor Hawke, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War, Magic, Multi, Parent Hawke, Parenthood, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Prodigies, Spirit Healers, Spirits, Swearing, Team as Family, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threesome - F/M/M, Waffles, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 93,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edlothia/pseuds/edlothia
Summary: Very little of Marian Hawke's life has gone as she expected. Not in Ferelden, not in Kirkwall, and not since her daughter Bethany was born to an uncertain, absent father and an incredibly complicated heritage.Life as the Herald of Andraste turns out to be a lot worse.An account of what to do when the ancient Magister you freed and killed turns out to be tearing the world asunder - whilst trying to wrangle a world that thinks you're a gift from the Maker's bride, a three-year-old who sets fire to things when she cries, the aftermath of a war that you started by trying to do the right thing, and two exes that by all accounts you should really hate...but don't.





	1. Haven

**Author's Note:**

> You may consider the subtitle of this story to be: so I got a bit carried away.
> 
> Hawke's spirit, Compassion, was first used in my story 'Blood and Ashes' - this story is not part of the same continuity, I just liked the nickname 'little bird' too much to not use it again. The rating here is for Hawke's potty mouth, mention of Templar abuses (not explicit), and more smut than initially intended.
> 
> Chapters are very long, so a little more infrequent than they might otherwise be - but hopefully based on how they're divided you won't feel that you've been left halfway through a chapter, too much.

Someone is screaming.

 

Hawke drops the broom that’s meant to be part of her disguise and bolts, running down the corridors of the temple. She has absolutely no idea where she’s going - they never found a map of the layout, she’s been winging it with bravado thus far. But the corridors ring with the sound of someone in agony, so Hawke runs, skidding to a halt as she rounds the corner to an open door.

 

“What’s going on here?”

 

A voice, Orlesian and panicked, calls back to her as she stands horrified in the doorway, with no idea what the words crashing down on her are. Lightning crackles instinctively between the fingers of her right hand, sparks leaping for the ground, static charging up her arm harmlessly.

 

 _No. No, no, fucking no_ , she thinks to herself, as Compassion whispers in her mind, _run, little bird._ **_Run_** _!_

 

Hawke doesn’t run - she isn’t fast enough. Her legs have abandoned her in the realisation that someone, some _thing_ that she killed is right there in front of her. Her heart pounds a tattoo in her chest, as if it could tear out of this stupid servant’s uniform.

 

Red tendrils of magic crackling round him, Corypheus turns to her, and Hawke screams.

 

\---

 

“Hey. Don’t try to move, Waffles. I’m here. I’m here.”

 

The ground is hard and cold and she can feel something _wrong_ with her left hand, but her head is in Varric’s lap and his hand is warm against her arm. She’d know it was him if she was blind and deaf. He doesn’t touch the Fade, but her magic knows him regardless.

 

“She is awake?” asks a second voice, demanding and accented. Hawke tries to place it - it isn’t Rivaini, or Orlesian. Tevinter? No, that’s not right. “Then she will explain.”

 

“Seeker,” Varric says, his grip on Hawke’s arm tightening. “You don’t think you could give her just a minute?”

 

“You _know_ that we have been searching for her for all this time, Varric. And now she is here. You _cannot_ think that to be a coincidence. She is involved, and we must know how.”

 

“Which she isn’t going to be able to tell you if you pounce on here the moment she opens her eyes. You’ve been here, you know how bad -”

 

Hawke’s left hand splits open.

 

It feels like that at least - one moment she’s bracing herself to try and sit up, the next moment there’s pain burning its way through her nerves, from the top of her palm all the way up to her shoulder.

 

 _Make it stop, little bird_! cries Compassion in her mind. Hawke snaps closed the link between them with a gasp, dampening the whole aura in the desperate hope that the spirit will be safe. The connection gone, she has no idea if it’s worked or not, and all she has left is prayer and the half-moons her nails are making in Varric’s skin.

 

It stops a moment later. Jolted back in by the shock, Hawke scrambles to sitting up and gulps for desperate breaths.

 

“What -”

 

“It’s killing you, Waffles,” Varric says. He doesn’t pull the punch, and she’s grateful for it, even if it means she has to hear his voice thick with fear. “We don’t know how. There’s an elf here who’s got more of an idea. He’s kept that mark from killing you so far, but it’ll keep going.”

 

The woman across from them steps into the light from the ceiling vent. Hawke looks up then, sees her - a Seeker of Truth in gleaming armour.

 

Shit.

 

“You will explain,” the woman says again, folding her arms across her chest. She has the sort of hair Hawke used to, before she let it go - the face and stance of a warrior. The stubbornness of the truly faithful. All told, she reminds her of the Grand Cleric.

 

“Hawke, you don’t have to answer anything she asks you.”

 

She closes her eyes then, and calls Compassion’s aura back to her.

 

_Are you alright?_

 

_Yes. I am fine._

 

_What’s happening to me?_

 

_You are dying, little bird. The Fade is...I do not know. It is tearing inside you. I do not know how to explain. We must make it stop._

 

She’s not dying. She refuses to die. She has too much to live for - somehow, after everything, she does.

 

Hawke takes another breath. “I’ll trade you, Seeker,” she says, her voice coming out hoarse from disuse and, she’s certain now, screaming. “A question for a question. Truth for truth.”

 

“We don’t have time for this,” the woman snaps, but something glimmers in her eyes.

 

So Hawke turns to her left, grabs hold of Varric’s arm with both of her hands - good to know the mark doesn’t hurt him - and asks, “Where is everyone else?”

 

 _Please_ , she thinks to herself, staring at him with wide eyes. _Please know what I’m asking. Please, Varric_.

 

Thank Andraste, Varric nods, looking at her intently. “She’s fine. Everyone she’s with is fine. They’re in the village not far from here.”

 

Something burns again, but this time it’s her eyes, hot with tears. _Oh, little bird_ , Compassion sighs with relief. Hawke throws herself into Varric’s arms and holds him as tightly as she can with shackles around her wrists - which mostly involves grabbing onto his ridiculous shirt and clinging there, head buried in his neck.

 

He turns and kisses her on the cheek, murmuring, “Promise, Hawke, she’s fine.”

 

“What were you doing at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” the Seeker asks, impatient - and more importantly, capitulating to the exchange.

 

Hawke sits up properly, holding onto the edge of Varric’s coat. “Spying,” she says without shame, looking down at the torn and matted servant’s uniform she is - horrifyingly - still wearing. That explains how cold it is. “I needed to - I had to - damnit, we just didn’t want the world to go completely fucking mad. But it has, hasn’t it?”

 

Why had she insisted on going instead of Merrill? But no - then it would be her friend here, scared and with no one but Varric.

 

The Seeker’s face hardens. “It will be easier to show you,” she replies.

 

\---

 

The Breach is as terrible as the truth of what happened. Hawke searches and searches her mind for an answer, but she cannot remember it. Compassion only sighs and says, _The memories are there. That you cannot reach them is a blessing, for now._

 

Varric gives her his coat, which doesn’t stop her from shivering as they pass into snow and mountains, but it smells of him. It helps. The million fears in her mind aren’t quiet but they’re easier to live with, this way. She remembers huddling together in the Deep Roads, a pile of bodies desperately hoping for sleep, and feels somehow safer for the thought of distant, already endured peril.

 

The Seeker - Cassandra - nearly throws a fit when Hawke drops her aura and takes out four shades with a darting zig-zag of lightning, but has sense enough to know not to argue, and tosses her a staff. When it's Hawke's turn for a question, and she finds out Cassandra’s the reason Varric hasn’t answered any letters for a month, she slips and sends the next bolt crackling just too close to the Seeker’s very metal, very conductive armour.

 

It’s a little petty, but so’s Cassandra.

 

‘The apostate’, as Cassandra insists on referring to him despite the fact that _everyone_ is a fucking apostate now, is polite and well-spoken, and recognises Compassion’s presence at once.

 

"A spirit healer," he marvels, with genuine respect. "I had not thought there to be any left."

 

With Solas’s help it’s only a few minutes before Hawke understands the Breach’s nature a lot better. She resolves never to introduce him to Merrill - they would either hate one another or get along so well that they’d invent a new kind of magic within minutes. Both are equally dangerous.

 

Sister Nightingale’s a surprise, but not an unwelcome one - Hawke had liked her the moment she met her in Kirkwall, in that _I like you because I know I can’t trust you_ sort of way. She also doesn’t seem surprised to see her, which is both a comment on Hawke’s disguise skills and on the Sister’s skill as a spymaster. At her urging and - strangely - Hawke’s approval, they take the mountain path to find some of the group’s missing troops before passing on.

 

Closing rifts is strange, but she gets the hang of it. It feels a little like opening herself to Compassion, but in a very, _very_ different way. She makes certain never to use the mark with Compassion present - it isn’t too much trouble, since between her and Solas people are hardly getting hurt through their barriers anyway, though she misses the comfort of the spirit’s presence.

 

Up close, the Breach is kind of beautiful.

 

This is the thought that lodges in Hawke’s mind as a voice - familiar, too familiar - tears through the air. It isn’t her own, though she recognises that too. It’s his. Corypheus’s. Her eyes dart over to Varric, but there’s no recognition there. _Of course. For you, it’s been a lot longer, even if I don’t remember what we’re hearing_. But the mark sends pain through her arm again, and stops her from saying anything, the urgency too much.

 

The pride demon is a surprise. It’s a long time since she’s fought one, and she’s never seen them with this degree of armour - but the power of the rift crackles over the creature and gives them the opening they need to destroy it.

 

As she reaches up to close the rift and the Breach with it, Hawke’s only thought is: _now I find Bethany and Merrill and we get the fuck out of here._

 

It doesn’t work that way.

 

\---

 

Merrill expected a lot of things when she went on the run with Hawke. It had taken some convincing to pull her away from the Alienage in Kirkwall - well, no, that was wrong. It had taken the _un_ expected to pull her away. She can still remember the day that Hawke came to her, broken and sobbing, clutching her abdomen and whispering, “I wasn’t supposed to be alone with this.”

 

She hadn’t asked too many questions. When a woman turns up in front of you, pregnant and distraught, there are some things you just didn’t ask. Like whether the father’s a mass-murdering hypocrite who let other people take the fall for all the shitty things he’s ever done.

 

...Merrill never liked him.

 

After that, being torn between helping the People and helping other mages hadn’t been so difficult a choice. Well, it wasn’t _helping_ the mages so much as gently calming them down and trying to get them to stop using Hawke’s name as an anti-Templar battlecry, whilst also trying to ensure that the saner ones got out of the madness. Not that many of them were sane anymore.

 

But still, helping mages meant helping Hawke - and helping Hawke meant helping Bethany. Only that had required her to learn an awful lot of things she hadn’t known, very, very quickly. It still does. There is not a day anymore that Merrill isn’t surprised by something.

 

Because it’s not the act of looking after her adopted niece that’s the problem. Bethany, much like her mother, is perfect. Big blue eyes, messy red-gold curls, with a round and puffy face that could’ve melted the heart of Meredith herself. She doesn’t throw tantrums, is intelligent and articulate - Merrill swears, sometimes, she catches the three-year-old reading books on magical theory over her own shoulder - and does exactly as she’s told.

 

The problem isn’t what Bethany intends to do. It’s what she doesn’t intend. Because Bethany’s a child of questions you don’t ask. Of power. Power that hasn’t always been the most controlled, and when Bethany does get upset...well, things start lighting up. Sometimes literally. When Hawke’s around it isn’t so bad. They’re both pretty good at dispelling magic and barriers now, something only Hawke had really mastered before.

 

Except Hawke isn’t here. Hawke went into the temple. Hawke was _in_ the temple when everything broke.

 

Merrill wonders if she should have dissuaded her. But no, there’s no dissuading Hawke, just like Hawke’s never tried to turn her from her blood magic even though Merrill knows she hates it. They’re each stubborn in their own way. It’s why she loves her. Not _loves_ loves, of course - Creators, Hawke’s love life is a pit of traps and vipers and questions you do. Not. Ask.

 

So when their work quietly freeing mages had led them to the Conclave, Merrill had happily agreed to stay behind with the toddler who sometimes created lightning by accident, because it wasn’t a debate she was ever going to win.

 

And when the temple blew - well, she’d just gone to the village. Her vallaslin marked her as obviously Dalish, but she wasn’t the only one, and no one seemed to think anything of her carrying round a human child. They were all too happy to take in a lost elf and her ward, and Bethany was adorable enough that Merrill hadn’t had too many questions. The tavern was loud, but she remembered the lessons Isabela had taught her about staying hidden. Just look normal. Don’t try too hard.

 

But there’s no normal now - the ground shakes, and Merrill reaches down and plucks Bethany from the ground. She looks up at her with wide eyes and lunch still smeared under her chin as Merrill holds her to her chest and runs out of the tavern. It’s not easy - Bethany isn’t small anymore, and Merrill’s never been very strong - but the panic helps her manage.

 

“Oh, no,” she murmurs, echoing the gasps of the other villagers around her as they watch the sky crackle with energy.

 

They’re still standing there, listening to rumours of what’s happened when the soldiers start pouring in. Those, Merrill has _definitely_ avoided - it only takes one of them murmuring to their Commander about the Dalish woman with a red-haired child for this all to come crashing down. Much like hiding, though, the soldiers are now unavoidable.

 

She follows the surge of onlookers who walk down the path from Flissa’s to the gates, crowding around Seggrit’s stand and watching as the soldiers parade in. They look exhausted, more than a few of them injured, and Merrill ducks down to clean Bethany’s face as she sees Cullen pass through them. Avoiding Templars is, in this place, an unconscious habit she’s grateful for.

 

“Seeker! Seeker, what’s happening!” someone calls in the crowd, and Merrill looks up as other people pick up the cry.

 

Her heart jumps.

 

Because there’s the Seeker, the harsh-faced woman with dark hair, the Sister beside her. Cassandra - that’s her name, and Leliana. She’s heard the others talking about them. She thinks Leliana might be someone Hawke met, she remembers the name, though she must not’ve been there with them.

 

It’s not them that Merrill looks at, though. It’s the dwarf next to them.

 

_What the - Varric! Varric, oh, lethallin, I am so glad to see you._

 

“The house at the end here,” Leliana calls over her shoulder.

 

Merrill follows her gaze, then takes an involuntary step forward, bumping herself and Bethany into the man in front of them. “Ooh, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, barely looking away.

 

Hawke. That’s Hawke, unconscious - please be unconscious - being carried by that bald city elf she’s seen about the place. She’s hurt. Merrill doesn’t know a lot of healing magic, that was always Hawke’s thing, but that’s her _friend_ and _no one hurts her friends._ She begins apologising again, pushing herself through the crowd, struggling desperately to get to the front. She’s just about to make it when a pair of dark eyes catch hers and shake.

 

“No,” Varric mouths. “Later. I’ll find you.”

 

“There’s a lot of people here,” Bethany points out wisely, and Merrill nods, grateful that the toddler hasn't recognised her mother.

 

A hundred thoughts dance on her tongue, but Merrill doesn’t voice them. Bethany tugs on her hair and the two of them slink backwards, vanishing into the crowd.

 

\--

 

“She’s alive.”

 

They’re the first words Varric says to her, which is for the best, because she might explode soon if she doesn’t find out what’s going on. As soon as he sits down on the rock Merrill managed to find hidden up by the trebuchets, Bethany jumps out of her arms and runs over to him.

 

“Uncle Varric!”

 

“Ooh, careful, the ground’s uneven there.”

 

Bethany skips over the rocks. “It’s okay! I’m fine now Uncle Varric is here.”

 

As soon as she’s in his arms, Varric cradles Bethany against him like she’s made of glass. _Or like she’s a crossbow_ , Merrill thinks to himself, grinning. Varric’s a lot of things, but he’s a good man. A better friend - almost as good as Hawke deserves.

 

“What happened?” Merrill says, and Varric tells her everything.

 

There are several points where something like guilt churns in Merrill’s gut, because going into the Conclave had been her idea. Where else were they going to find out what was really going on? You couldn’t protect people if you didn’t know what you were protecting them from. And she’d wanted to go, been ready to go, but Hawke had insisted.

 

_No, you’ve done so much. You gave up everything for us, Merrill, I won’t let you risk it. There will be so many Templars in there._

 

Part of Merrill, a very large part, wants to go back and box both of their ears until they realise how terrible an idea it was.

 

“We can’t get to her,” Merrill says, frowning deeply. “Not without people knowing. You know that Knight-Captain’s here.”

 

“Yeah, but don’t let him hear you call him that. Come to think of it, don’t let him see you.”

 

“We’re hiding,” Bethany adds, nodding her head solemnly.

 

Merrill glares at the knot in Varric’s brow. “I’m not stupid, Varric.”

 

“Shit, Daisy, I’m sorry.”

 

“Shit!”

 

“Goldie, you are going to forget I ever said that, and you’re definitely not going to say it in front of your mother.”

 

“Mama says plenty worse things. She says I’m not meant to say them either. Her face goes red when she does it.”

 

Varric pinches the bridge of his nose. “Daisy, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just - long day, you know? Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve managed this long.” He chuckles sincerely. “This place is full of spies belonging to someone or another.”

 

“Which makes it just like Kirkwall,” she replies, grinning impishly. “Isabela told me the trick is not to hide too hard. And it’s only been a day, you know.”

 

“Long enough for this one to start charming the world, I’m sure,” Varric smirks. “Look - let me see if I can make a fuss. There’s a couple huts next to the one they put Hawke in. I kick up a ruckus, get Cassandra to give me one, we sneak you and Goldie in around the back.”

 

“Well,” Merrill says, sitting back and watching Bethany try to pull Varric’s chest hair, “you _are_ good at making a fuss.”

 

Bethany claps her hands together. “Ooh, sneaking! I love sneaking!”

 

\---

 

The elf stumbles her way out of the room, still calling, “At once!”, nearly tripping over herself in the process.

 

Hawke groans, and rubs at her face with the heel of her hand - her good hand, the one that isn’t cursed by a dead Magister’s broken Veil magic. _Not this again_ , she thinks to herself, turning just enough to put her feet on the ground. At least they’ve given her some better clothes to wear. _Did someone change me whilst I was out? Maker, I hope it was Varric. Someone fucking bathed me._

 

Focusing, she reaches out for Compassion, relaxing a little as the aura suffuses her. It’s hard to see normally, but in the dim light of the cabin, she can almost make out the faint blue sheen on her skin. There are no wounds left on her to heal, but being without Compassion now feels like being truly alone. Sometimes she understands why -

 

 _No_.

 

She’s not thinking about that. Him. Not happening. _Now. I need something to do now, I need to - shit. Corypheus. I killed you, you piece of shit, I fucking killed you! How are you here? Why are you here? What in Andraste’s name is going on?_

 

_Where is my daughter?_

 

That thought makes her jump to her feet, instantly regretting it - however long she’s been here hasn’t done her muscles any favours. Hawke searches the room quickly, finding boots and a cloak that will do something to help, because she’s damned if she’s going out in the cold without anything. There are no socks, but it’ll have to do.

 

The search gives her a moment to hear it. Metal, and murmuring voices. She peeks out the front, careful to avoid being seen, and almost swears out loud.

 

_Around the side, little bird. They will not see you._

 

 _Yes_ , Hawke thinks, moving to the back window. _Good idea_.

 

It isn’t hard to sneak around them, all things considered - the weirdos are lined up like they’re presenting themselves for inspection. She pulls the hood up on her cloak and skirts around the right hand side of the cabin. The gap between her cabin and the next isn’t too big, but she waits for a moment where she’s sure they’re all looking away, just incase.

 

The snow is loud under her feet, so she steps slowly, coming to a halt around the back of the next cabin. If she’s right, the crowd of people ends not far past it - but what lies beyond here on this side, Hawke has no idea. Her memory of the village is hazy, and only about ten minutes long even if it was clear.

 

She’s just starting to edge forward to see when she hears a familiar voice.

 

“What d’you mean Cassandra wants to see her? How about her best sodding friend wants to see her, hey?”

 

A door slams. Hawke tries to place its location, but she doesn’t have to think hard - Varric’s voice sounds again, inside the cabin next to her, quieter this time.

 

“Shit. They’ve got a party going on out there, Daisy, there’s no way we’re getting through.”

 

“Mama would use magic. Can we use magic, Auntie?”

 

All of the breath in Hawke’s lungs leaves her. She stands bolt upright, no longer sneaking forward, instead turning to the shuttered window and desperately pulling at the wood. It’s creaking, the slats swollen from cold and waterlogging, but she barely cares if she’s making noise now.

 

“Merrill!” she hisses, as loud as she dares - wood cracking is one thing, a voice is another. “Varric!”

 

The shutters open so fast that Hawke has to duck out of the way, avoiding Varric’s protruding arm and the wood itself. They stare at each other for a moment, astonished, before he lowers his arm and grabs hold of hers, pulling her into the cabin. It’s awkward, he can’t quite reach, but they manage it.

 

Her eyes dart about the room, looking desperately for -

 

“Bethany. Oh, Maker, Bethany,” Hawke sobs, running forward and kneeling on the rug beside her.

 

“Mama!”

 

Her daughter’s giggling sounds in her ears as she holds her, breathes her in, cradles her with hands shaking so much that Varric presses his over them to steady her. The tears rolling down her face catch in Bethany’s curls, and a few moments later, Merrill’s arms wrap around both of them from behind.

 

In that moment, Hawke realises she’ll save the world a hundred times if it brings her home to this.

 

\---

 

There’s no putting off the inevitable, of course.

 

At some point, she is going to have to leave this room and meet Cassandra in the Chantry. To find out why the Breach didn’t close but the other rifts did. Hawke’s under no illusions - it’s happening again. First she was Champion of a city, and now she’s the Champion of all of bloody Thedas. The Herald of Andraste, Varric says they’re calling her. He slipped that one in quickly, seconds after telling her exactly who _the Commander_ is, as if making it a double punch would somehow soften the blow.

 

So she’s going to have to go to that Chantry and talk about rifts. About closing them, stopping them from hurting people. She’s going to have to tell them about Corypheus - and didn’t _that_ get a string of expletives from Merrill. Hawke hadn’t even realised she knew so many (or that she’d be stupid enough to say them in front of Bethany, who is now parading around the room proclaiming them at full volume).

 

But he was dead. He was dead, Hawke remembers that clearly.

 

Worst of all - which is saying something when your news is that a dead Magister that your father once sealed away and the Grey Wardens unearthed may have destroyed the Conclave and killed the Divine - worst of all…

 

She has to see Cullen. And Cullen will inevitably see Bethany.

 

“By the Dread Wolf!” Bethany chimes, and Hawke finds herself agreeing with her.

 

Hawke has never been entirely sure that Varric knew everything she did in Kirkwall. The nervous twitch in his cheek when he told her Cullen was here, though - that gave him away. He knows, and knows enough to be nervous. More than once, Hawke’s eyes drift to Bethany.

 

_He doesn’t know everything, though. Right?_

 

And a Cullen who’s left the Templar order? That makes no sense to her. That, more than anything, makes her have to know. Merrill, fortunately, hasn’t cottoned on - or if she has, she’s gotten a lot better at lying than Hawke remembers, which is comforting and terrifying in its own way.

 

“So you’ll go ahead,” Varric says, laying out his and Merrill’s plan for probably the fifth time, “and we’ll follow later, when it’s safe.”

 

Across from them, Bethany is singing to herself in elvhen, because Andraste forbid this child be normal at any point. It’s not enough to quiet the butterflies and knots in her stomach, but Hawke’d be lying if she said it didn’t help.

 

Still.

 

“No.”

 

“Hawke, it’s a good plan.”

 

Hawke shakes her head more fiercely this time, grimacing when her too-long hair flicks her in the face. Bethany giggles and grabs it; Hawke smiles. “I want it all done at once. People are in danger, Merrill. If we waste time treading around my problems, more will be hurt. I can’t do that.”

 

“But Hawke...if she gets upset, if they see her magic -”

 

“They’ll see it if the hut burns down too. She’s already in danger. We can’t protect her with just two of us, not anymore.” She sighs. “Not even with three. Also, honestly, she’s pretty good armour. If I’ve got her with me, the likelihood of me killing the Seeker’s a lot lower.”

 

Varric grins, and ruffles Hawke’s hair. “No killing the Seeker on my account, Waffles.”

 

“She _kidnapped_ you,” Hawke growls, batting his hand away.

 

“I think she must be very patient,” Merrill pronounces, “to have put up with so many of Varric’s stories.”

 

“He does love the sound of his own voice. Alright. Come on, before they send out a search party. I don’t want to meet them all by standing here looking stupid when they break the door down.”

 

\---

 

So they just...open the door and walk out.

 

It throws the crowd for a loop, who aren’t expecting the Champion of Kirkwall to be flanked by a Dalish elf and a dwarf and _definitely_ aren’t expecting her to be holding the hand of a three-year-old. Bethany smiles and waves as if she’s the Queen of Ferelden, pronouncing, “Good morning!”, and a few seconds later the onlookers are kneeling and bowing.

 

“Just keep going, Hawke, that’s it,” Merrill says cheerily, though Hawke can tell she too wants to run and hide. “Get it over with, like you said.”

 

It’s only half a minute to the Chantry, a wide building that dominates the village, but it seems like the longest thirty seconds of Hawke’s life. More people pour out of tents and buildings to praise her, or Andraste, or the Maker - sometimes it seems like all three. She finds herself focusing, for want of something less intense, on the hope that Bethany won’t choose now to show off the words Merrill just taught her.

 

Fortunately, the crowd don’t follow her up to the Chantry, so there’s no one to hear when Cassandra takes one look at Bethany and demands, “What is the meaning of this?”

 

Hawke smiles. “Hello, Seeker. This is my daughter, Bethany, and my friend, Merrill. Bethany, this is the woman who kidnapped your Uncle Varric.”

 

“Good morning!” Bethany says cheerfully, holding out a handful of snow in greeting. “I’m Bethany. You shouldn’t kidnap my Uncle, he’s a very good man, and I’m sad when I can’t see him. Also," she adds as an evident afterthought, "kidnapping is bad.”

 

Cassandra’s mouth drops open, and Hawke thinks she sees something in the woman’s face soften. “Varric did not mention -”

 

“A lot of things, I imagine. I hope you can understand him wanting to protect her.”

 

“I - of course.” The Seeker thins her lips, as if retracting in several questions. “Come. The others wish to meet you. I will explain.”

 

“You’re supposed to say it’s nice to meet me,” Bethany points out, placing her free hand on her hip and not budging a step. Hawke looks up at the sky in supplication. “Even if it isn’t.”

 

Fortunately, Cassandra’s expression just quietens again. Yes, Hawke’s very glad she bought Bethany with her. “You are right. It is a pleasure to meet you, Bethany Hawke.”

 

As if they require her approval to move on, Bethany nods at this, and starts walking into the Chantry. Forced to keep up, Hawke doesn’t have a moment to think about the fact that she’s not been in a Chantry since Kirkwall, and for good reason. It still prickles on the back of her neck though, makes her skin tingle where she can feel her magic against it, but Bethany’s hand in hers soothes the worst of it away.

 

There isn’t much that Cassandra says as they walk that’s new, not with Varric and Merrill having brought her up to speed, but there’s one thing that gives her pause.

 

“...I understand you and the Commander know one another.”

 

Hawke was wrong. The walk to the Chantry was not the longest thirty seconds of her life. The thirty seconds that passes as they walk from the doors of the Chantry to the doors to their makeshift war room - that’s the longest.

 

“I’m sure my presence was a surprise to him,” Hawke says, pointedly not looking at Varric - or Merrill, who is definitely suspecting things by now, even if they’re probably not what she thinks.

 

“He threw a goblet across the room,” Cassandra says, raising an eyebrow, “and punched a bookcase.”

 

“You should not hurt bookcases,” Bethany pronounces with certainty.

 

“Ooh,” Merrill says, wincing. “I’m not sure I want to take Bethany to see an angry Templar, Hawke.”

 

That raised eyebrow dips into a frown. “He is not part of the Templar Order, not any longer. The Commander is a good man. If anything should happen to him…”

 

It’s at that moment that Bethany throws the handful of snow she’s been gripping at Cassandra’s leg, which does something to allay the tension. Hawke stifles a laugh with her not-cursed hand, then strokes Bethany’s head as she comes near.

 

“Seeker, I promise, you have nothing to worry about. I get it. Me being here must bring up difficult memories for him.”

 

_Like the fact that our boyfriend blew up a Chantry full of people and I let him live._

 

“Shall we?”

 

\---

 

It’s fitting that, with the giant pile of things already going wrong, Bethany accidentally zaps a table with sparks as soon as they walk into the war room. The shock of it makes her burst into tears.

 

There’s a difference between suspecting all eyes are going to turn on you and _knowing_ they’re on you, but when you’re holding a crying child it’s impossible to be anything but certain. And Hawke knows, _feels_ , that one set of eyes is burning through her like the knot in her chest is searing - but Bethany, precious Bethany, will just do it again if she doesn’t calm down.

 

“Merrill, can you -”

 

“Got it,” Merrill says, weaving the special barrier. It settles over Bethany's skin, protecting her but letting her magic through, so it can’t harm her. They’d found it in a Circle training book that had, though it was intended for children closer to ten than three, proved utterly invaluable. Granted, it had given both of them a lot of conflicting feelings.

 

“How long since it happened last?”

 

Merrill leans on her staff and thinks. “It happened when the temple fell. The sound scared her. It wasn’t bad, though! Just a little spark, like then.”

 

“Is there a chair around here?”

 

A woman that Hawke doesn’t recognise bustles over with a ridiculous clipboard, producing a chair seemingly out of nowhere. “Here, Herald.”

 

“Thank you,” Hawke says, scooping the glowing, shaking Bethany up and pulling her into her lap. Next to her, Merrill starts tracing her fingertips in the glyphs for a dispel, just incase. “I’m very sorry, we just need a minute.”

 

“Mama,” Bethany mumbles, through tears, “I don’t like it. It’s cold.”

 

Merrill kneels down next to her. “Ir abelas, da’len,” she murmurs, still holding her spell. “It isn’t for very long, you know that. Just until you stop crying.”

 

“And it isn’t your fault,” Hawke adds, holding her arms tightly around her daughter. “Sometimes when we get upset, it just happens. And a lot has happened. You’ve done so well, Bethy. I’m really proud of you.”

 

There’s something strange that happens whenever a secret is revealed in a room, Hawke’s noticed. It’s like everyone tries so hard to look away from it that they do the very opposite. And right now, everyone is looking at a spot just over her shoulder, as if that disguises their attention. Which is exactly what she’s been doing to the figure she can sense across the room from her.

 

Because she’s certain Cullen hasn’t looked away from Bethany, and that he’s staring a hundred questions in their direction.

 

“I didn’t get your name,” she says to the golden-ruffled woman with the clipboard. Cassandra steps forward and starts a full set of introductions, which seems a little unnecessary given that Hawke’s already met two of the three people in front of her, but somehow she can’t bring herself to mind. It’s a good segue into something normal.

 

They don’t ask about Bethany.

 

The discussion blurs by in that strange way that discussions do when you’re half paying attention - incredibly fast and slow all at the same time. Bethany’s grip on her is all that keeps Hawke focused enough to listen. It takes her a moment to realise, when the words stop, that they’re looking to her for something to say.

 

“I came to the Conclave to make sure that people like me were cared for,” she says quietly, looking down at Bethany. “This goes a lot further than that, but it doesn’t change anything.” Her hands shift, running over golden curls. “I want a better world for my daughter. You need me to close rifts to do that? I’ll close rifts. I’ll find your Revered Mother. I’ll do whatever you want, so long as Bethany is safe.”

 

She pointedly doesn’t mention the part about the mark killing her if she doesn’t get rid of it.

 

Leliana quirks a small, knowing smile. “You see, Cassandra. Sometimes things do go as you wish.”

 

“But - there’s something else you should know.”

 

That gives them all pause. Mother had always told her to put the good news first, though. “The voices we heard, at the Breach. I recognised them.”

 

“Of course,” Cassandra says, nodding. “It was Divine Justinia. How could you not recognise her? And your own voice?”

 

“You mean you recognised the one who did this,” Leliana says, more astutely.

 

Hawke takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Bethany’s hair - which desperately, she realises, needs washing. One thing at a time. “His name is Corypheus. Five years ago, maybe six, Varric and I killed him, with my brother and -” _Breathe, little bird_. “- and he was definitely, absolutely, completely dead.”

 

“The Magister who sought the Golden City - Varric spoke of this,” says Cassandra in surprise, looking between them. Her eyes narrow abruptly. “Did you lie about this as well?”

 

“Nope,” Varric sighs, shifting from one foot to the other. “He was definitely dead.”

 

At Josephine’s request, he explains the story again, sparing no detail (though, Hawke notes, he neglects to say Anders's name). Bethany sits up in Hawke’s arms as he speaks - listening to Uncle Varric tell stories, especially about her mother, is one of her favourite things. Not that she’s had a lot of opportunity. The past few years, they’ve hardly seen him at all, only managing it whenever they sneak into Kirkwall for just a few days.

 

But he’s Bethany’s favourite, because he’s Hawke’s favourite, and both of those things will always be the case.

 

“It’s my fault he’s free,” Hawke says, when Varric’s story is over. Realisation tightens in her chest. “I let him out. If he’s done all this, then - this is my fault, too. I need to fix it.”

 

“If there is anything to be found out about how he is alive,” Leliana says, with soft determination, “I will find it.”

 

Josephine nods. “Until then, we must continue as we have intended. The rifts are still a threat, and the Revered Mother’s support still invaluable to the Inquisition.”

 

“We should leave as soon as you are well enough,” Cassandra says, though her eyes still rest uneasily on Varric.

 

Hawke nods. “I understand.” She focuses, for a moment, on the faint blue glow of her skin and Compassion’s presence, and Bethany’s warmth in her arms. “Is there anything more?”

 

“Not for now, I think.”

 

Right, then.

 

Time to deal with the other thing.

 

_He does not hate you, little bird. He never could._

 

“Then if it is alright,” Hawke says, taking a deep breath, “I would like a moment alone with the Commander. Bethany, would you mind going with Auntie Merrill for a little while? She’ll make sure the magic doesn’t bother you again.”

 

“Hawke -”

 

“Please, Merrill. Go. I will be fine.”

 

“Look, Hawke -”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Varric, I can hold my own against one former Templar. You can wait outside if it makes you feel better.”

 

They file out of the room, quiet except for Bethany, who proudly declaims, “Andraste’s tits!” as the door is closing. Hawke buries her face in her hands and sighs; that’s going to be a difficult one to stop.

 

Silence falls, and she does nothing to break it.

 

Which is exactly what Cullen has done since the moment she stepped into the room. He hasn’t moved from his spot in the corner, nor offered so much as a word, only responding to anything directed his way with a nod or small gesture.

 

The footsteps outside die down, and Hawke makes herself look at him then; at the unfamiliar armour and mantle, and the far more familiar weariness on his face. He looks much older than he did four years ago - even moreso than she does, with her long hair and dark bags under her eyes.

 

“When they told me it was you,” he says, his voice low and rough and filling the room, “I didn’t believe them.”

 

“Wishful thinking?”

 

“What were you doing there?”

 

She stands up, because the conversation is awkward enough without having to crane her neck to face him like he deserves. “I started a war, Cullen. Do you really think I’d just...do nothing about that?”

 

“ _You_ didn’t start it,” he points out through gritted teeth, the hands on his sword tightening. “ _He_ did.”

 

“I spent years undermining the work of the Kirkwall Templars, then killed the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. That was my choice. My doing. It’s _my_ name they used as a warcry when they rose up against their Circles.”

 

She breaks off, realising her hands are clawed on the edge of the table that rests between them. _Breathe_ , Compassion says, and Hawke focuses on the cool touch of the magic on her skin.

 

She sighs. “This isn’t what either of us wants to talk about,” she says, not looking at him.

 

“Cassandra said that when you woke the first time, you traded her a question for a question.”

 

 _That_ makes her look at him, a flicker of blue into gold. “I did.”

 

There’s something about the mantle of fur over his plate armour that makes Cullen’s every movement predatory, as if he were a literal lion prowling towards her. He doesn’t move a step; just shifts his weight, and that’s enough to make her tense up.

 

“Then you will accept those terms with me?”

 

Hawke nods, trying to ignore the fact that her mouth has gone dry. “I do. I mean I will. Go ahead.”

 

For a moment he just stands there staring at her - then he does move, in quick, certain steps around the table. He stops arm’s reach from her, one hand resting on his sword, the other on the edge of the table, just like hers.

 

“Her magic,” he says, not lifting his eyes from her for a second. “Bethany’s. Does that mean -”

 

He doesn’t finish the question, but Hawke can’t blame him. She wouldn’t be able to, in his position. And it’s not like she needs him to, either. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to run away or grab her by the throat; she knows exactly what he’s asking.

 

“I don’t know,” she says, and he grimaces. “That’s the truth, Cullen. I suspect, yes, because she’s got more magic than anyone I’ve ever met. But there’s only one way to be sure, and I haven’t been able to use it. I’m not sure I would now I could.”

 

“What is - damnit. That’s two questions.”

 

She smiles, a small quirk on the side of her face. “You can have this one for free, because you won’t like it either.”

 

“Blood magic, then.” The grimace returns. “Because you would need my blood, or his, to be sure.”

 

“Yes. It’s not complicated; Merrill knows it, I’m sure she does. But I wouldn’t ever ask her. She would say yes."

 

“He said the chance of it being him was infinitesimal. That was the whole reason I was there.”

 

Hawke looks away, down at his boots, glossy with the melted remains of snow. “He did. And it’s true - Carver told me. Shouted it, really, when he found out.”

 

A pause.

 

“I hope your brother is well.”

 

“So do I. It’s a while since I heard from him. I don’t even know where he is right now.” She bites her bottom lip. “Varric says you left the Order.”

 

“I - did.”

 

“Why?”

 

She used to love Cullen’s laughter. It was warm, and intense, and rough in all the right places. Now it just sounds hoarse and tired. “You, of all people, should be able to work that out,” he says, looking away from her. “You’ve a better chance than anyone else, at least. I couldn’t stay. Not after everything. After Meredith. I -”

 

Afterwards, Hawke isn’t sure if he stops talking because her fingers touch his arm, or if her fingers touch his arm because he stops talking. Either way, they both jump back, the moment jarred into too much reality.

 

“I should…” Hawke says, not finishing the sentence, fleeing the room before she can think too much about cool metal underneath her fingertips.

 

\---

 

That night, she dreams of him.

 

Just him, thank the Maker. A little younger and a lot less haggard - weighed down by one catastrophe rather than two. She looks around in the dream at his office, light and damning all at once. The Gallows was a strangely neat prison.

 

“The Knight Commander knows what you are,” he says, his voice louder than it needs to be. Someone is watching them - but then someone’s always watching you, in Kirkwall. “She knows _what_ you are. You parade through the streets in the embrace of a demon, tending wounds. Do you not think that she has not noticed? You are monitored as closely as anyone here within the Circle. You are not free, Lady Hawke. You are just like all the others.”

 

The dream shifts, changes, they’re in her manor now and he’s lost his armour. No one sees you as a Templar when you’re dressed in a doublet and breeches, especially not if you keep your cloak's hood up. She reaches up and pulls it down, revealing his regret.

 

“I hope you’ll tell her I’m sorry,” he says, leaning his forehead down to rest it against hers. “She is dangerous, but she is not a demon.”

 

Hawke runs her hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. “She understands. There are times when lying is the kindest thing you can do. You’re lying to keep me safe, Cullen. There’s no better lie.”

 

He kisses her so deeply that her toes curl in her slippers. “Come to bed?” she says, clutching at his sleeves. “It’s just us, today.”

 

When Hawke wakes up, it’s with the memory of his lips on hers.

 

\---

 

By the next afternoon, Hawke’s certain she’s well enough to go - and that means there’s no putting it off anymore.

 

“But why can’t I go with you?”

 

“Because there’s fighting there, Bethy. Haven is the safest place for you to be. Auntie’s going to look after you, and Uncle Varric too. You can badger him for all those stories you’ve been wanting.”

 

“No,” Bethany says, stamping her foot in an excellent impression of Carver when he was young. “If you have to go, you’re taking Uncle Varric. Someone needs to keep you safe.”

 

“Cassandra is going to keep me safe,” Hawke points out, but Bethany just stares. “Fine, I will take Varric too. I’ll even take Solas. As long as you’re good for Merrill.”

 

This, at least, contents Bethany. Which is good, because the trip to the Hinterlands does _not_ turn out to be as short as Hawke would like. The journey there isn’t awful, but finding Mother Giselle means fighting through both sides of the war she started, and isn’t that a fun jaunt. Not only that, but the war means the place is a shambles.

 

It takes a week of hunting people in the hills for Hawke to be certain she’s stopped the fighting here, at least. Another day gives food and furs to the villagers, and two more days gets everything put in place for the horsemaster - as soon as Cullen gets the watchtowers up, at least. The Warden that Leliana told her about (a strange man, but good with a sword, and not a bad teacher) has gone ahead, with both the order and instructions to do whatever the Commander asks of him.

 

By the time they’ve been there and back it’s been almost two weeks, the longest she’s ever been away from Bethany, and Hawke’s relatively certain she’d be a menace to live with if it weren’t for Compassion’s presence and Varric’s tendency to carefully steer her away from other people whenever it gets really bad.

 

When she finally gets back to Haven, Hawke pointedly ignores the dozen people who want to speak to her and locks herself in her cabin with Bethany and Merrill for the rest of the day.

 

\---

 

She can’t avoid the requests forever, though, and stumbles eventually out of the smith’s with a new suit of armour that fits far better than the hand-me-down things she’d been wearing through the Hinterlands.

 

It’s not the suit she had back in Kirkwall, which was so _her_ it almost felt like a uniform all of her own - but it’s warm, with a hard olive-hued bodice and a dark scarf long enough to loop several times around her neck and shoulders both. Pouches and a satchel hang from her belt, settled around the soldier-style trousers, and there are even metal greaves to protect her legs.

 

It makes her more noticeable, too, which she spots as half a dozen recruits turn to look at her when she makes her way towards where Cassandra is training. Boots scrape on the gritty snow behind her.

 

“That scarf will do nothing for your throat,” Cullen points out as she turns to face him.

 

With a small, wry smile, she waves a hand in the first weavings of a barrier - then lets the magic flutter, incomplete. “If they’re that close to me, I’ve got bigger problems. And so have they.”

 

She turns back towards Cassandra, and he takes a step closer. “I have another question.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“When did you find out?” Cullen asks softly, stepping closer again until he’s stood next to her, as if they were just comfortably watching the soldiers train. “That you were pregnant.”

 

Hawke smiles, sadly. _You mean did I know when we were still in Kirkwall_ , she thinks, then says it out loud. He doesn’t answer. “We were already on the run. Me, Isabella, Merrill. Varric came with us a little of the way, but not all of it.” She shifts, settling the soft scarf better around her shoulders. “We were a month out from Kirkwall. My magic started going wrong - I couldn’t control it. Merrill worked it out pretty quickly.”

 

“So,” Cullen says, letting out a single burst of sound that could barely be termed a chuckle, “it was right before he - before you left.”

 

“It must’ve been.” She folds her arms over her chest and looks at the soldiers.

 

“Your turn.”

 

His voice doesn’t give much away; he still just sounds weary. Hawke knows there are a dozen things that she wants to ask, but in that moment, they all seem to escape her. So instead, she just asks, “Are you okay?”

 

“Yes,” he says, warmth creeping into his voice in a way that surprises her. “I am. This Inquisition - _this_ is the Maker’s work, Hawke.”

 

Her smile comes a little more easily, this time. “Good. That’s good.” She looks at the floor, adrift in the hundred thousand other things they could be saying to one another. “I need to speak to Cassandra.”

 

All that Cullen does as she walks away is nod.

 

\---

 

“You are avoiding me,” Mother Giselle says, as Hawke passes the Apothecary on the way to meet Leliana.

 

“Ah. I - yes.” Stopping between the buildings, Hawke turns and looks at the Revered Mother, who comes to a stop in front of her. “Well, not exactly. I’m more avoiding the building. The Chantry.”

 

“A statement that itself is an attempt to avoid bringing up the memories involved.”

 

Hawke chuckles, hanging her head. “Yeah, you got me. Until here, I’d not been in one since - you know.” She shrugs. “Not that I’d spent a lot of time in them before, but.”

 

“You invoke Andraste’s name often,” Mother Giselle points out, her face still placid, “for one who does not believe.”

 

“I believe. I just don’t revere. It’s...hard to, when you’re a mage. An apostate as was. The Chant’s used as an excuse to enslave and abuse us.” The bitterness creeps into her voice, but Hawke doesn’t hide it. She suspects the Mother wouldn’t want her to. “It’s not exactly easy to turn to for comfort.”

 

“As the Herald of Andraste -” The Revered Mother holds up a hand when Hawke protests. “Whether you believe it or not, it is what the world sees you as. As the Herald of Andraste, you will be asked what you believe far more than you are used to.”

 

“And I need an answer.”

 

Giselle smiles, the expression deepening the lines on her face. “Yes. But not for them. For yourself. It is a hard thing, to question your faith. Whether it is close to your heart or not.”

 

“That’s true,” Hawke says, becoming increasingly certain that nothing that Mother Giselle ever says is a lie. “They’re going to ask me at Val Royeaux, aren’t they.”

 

“It is likely.”

 

She twists her mouth to the side in a half-smile. “Then I guess I’d better come up with an answer quickly. I - thank you, Revered Mother.”

 

\---

 

Val Royeaux goes about as well as Hawke expects, which is to say that someone punches a Chantry Sister in the face, she gets invited to a party, and an arrow gets shot at her to start a scavenger hunt. Hawke has never seen Val Royeaux before, and she’s relatively certain she doesn’t want to again. And that the feeling is mutual.

 

It’s not a complete loss, though. They know a lot more about the mess the Templars have become than they did before, and the rebel mages have invited her to visit (and wasn’t _that_ a weird conversation, with Grand Enchanter Fiona fawning over Hawke like she wasn’t known for killing the last Enchanter she’d met). Hawke suspects it isn’t for tea and biscuits.

 

The party - which Hawke attends, reluctantly, at Cassandra’s insistence - is _not_ a success. Cassandra does not get the Circle ally that she wants, because First Enchanter Vivienne takes one look at Hawke and politely requests that she: “Dismiss that demon that you’re carrying around with you, darling, I won’t have it in my Ghislain’s house. Spirit healers! An offense to magekind, I say."

 

Hawke walks out of the Estate and doesn’t look back. They need allies, not venomous snakes.

 

The scavenger hunt, on the other hand, is a lot more useful. If nothing else, they end it with a lot of spare breeches for Cullen’s soldiers - though Sera’s definitely going to be handy too, if Hawke’s understood even half of what she’s said. Hopefully Leliana can use her, rather than start a ridiculous rivalry, though both seem as likely.

 

She’d be relieved to be home, except the others want to meet in the war room _immediately, Herald_ , as if she isn’t allowed a chance to take a fucking breath or spend more than thirty seconds with her daughter.

 

Halfway to the Chantry she remembers that _they_ need _her,_ and decides she isn’t going to jump just because they say so. If she doesn’t make that clear now, she’ll be as much a slave as any Circle mage. So instead she walks back to the hut and listens to Bethany chatter at her excitedly in elvhen words she doesn’t understand, until Cassandra finally comes to pound on her door.

 

\---

 

“All I have is a name,” Leliana says, with an air that suggests that this, in itself, is a miracle. “The Elder One.”

 

“Corypheus?”

 

“That is my assumption.”

 

“That can’t be what you called me back here for,” Hawke sighs, taking her gloves off and rubbing at her face. She can feel the dust of the road coating her skin. “That’s nothing.”

 

“It is not,” says Josephine, letting out her own sigh - though hers is more apologetic than weary. “It is the Breach, Herald. To close it, we will need more power than we have. I believe that it is time to take advantage of the invitation you have received.”

 

Hawke does not hide the grimace that floods across her face; Cassandra doesn’t either, nor does Cullen. “You cannot possibly think that the Templars will stand by and do nothing if I go and have tea and biscuits with Fiona.”

 

“Then approach the Templars,” Cullen says, making Josephine and Leliana’s guarded expressions falter with shock and surprise. It might be the first thing he’s said to her in front of them. “ _They_ are not rebels who cannot be trusted. Besides that, you need someone who can dispel magic, not those who open the way to it.”

 

Just like that.

 

Just walk up and ask for help from the people who have persecuted her kind, who have murdered and kidnapped and raped and tortured the people she’s devoted her life to saving. Blue-white light suffuses her, Compassion’s power waxing to neutralise the magic that tries to break through amidst Hawke’s anger.

 

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Hawke snaps, the words coming out in a snarl that she instantly regrets. She closes her eyes to avoid seeing their reactions. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m tired of -” _of things that are my fault_ “- having to convince people how bad things are. That’s hard enough. I don’t think we can do that and also convince them I’m not an evil murderer about to turn into a demon at the blink of an eye.”

 

Josephine smiles, though her eyes still linger on Hawke’s glowing skin. “In fact, Herald, that may not be as impossible as you think.”

 

Within a few short minutes, even Hawke has started to believe that Josephine might be able to work magic, but it doesn’t change anything.

 

It doesn’t erase the things she remembers.

 

She was in Darktown one day with Anders, the two of them working to save a man whose leg had been close to severed by a Carta axe. By all rights he should have been dead, but she’d found him in the street, and kept him alive long enough to drag him to the clinic.

 

He was dead fifteen minutes later; Templars had come to patrol Darktown, the way they did as infrequently as possible to avoid having to come into the squalor. She and Anders had climbed up into the alcoves at the back of the clinic, behind the crates and against the rough, wet earth that passed for walls.

 

The Templars found a dying man surrounded by normal, mundane healers, their efforts not enough to save him. They watched him die, to be certain that no one was going to appear and heal him, and then they left.

 

If they had come out, everyone the two of them saved in the years afterwards would have died with them.

 

This is the story that Hawke wants to tell Josephine, as she explains that it’s more than possible to get a meeting with the Templars. The room shifts without Hawke noticing: Cullen looks hopeful and distraught at the same time; Leliana looks uncertain.

 

Cassandra leans over the table and says, “Perhaps it may be possible after all, then.”

 

“When I was seventeen,” Hawke begins, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a worn red handkerchief, “my sister came running up to me at our house, sobbing. She was always very careful, Bethany. She had a close call when she was younger, putting a dog to sleep to save a friend, and after that she always stayed hidden. But one day she’d gone to market because mother was too sick to go, I was looking after her, and Carver was at training.

 

“There was a fight, and she helped break it up, with some of the villagers. One or two of them were hurt, and she healed them - not obviously, not even intentionally, just enough that they weren’t in a lot of pain. It happens like that, often, when you're young. It was just outside the Chantry. There weren’t many Templars at Lothering, but there were enough that we avoided it. One of them saw her.”

 

Hawke pauses, looking up at the expressions around her. They know where this is going, so she doesn't finish it. They all know. “The problem isn’t individual Templars. Not even him. Not even Meredith. There are as many good Templars as there are bad ones.” She folds her arms over her chest, to disguise the shaking. “The problem is an institution that will ignore the blackmailers and the rapists because they believe that what’s through the Veil is more dangerous than what’s here. It isn’t. Mages are just the door; it’s _people,_ all people, whose sins are reflected in demons.”

 

She realises, as she tightens her fingers around Bethany’s handkerchief and looks at the map in front of her, that her eyes are burning and her cheeks are wet.

 

And that she's answered the Revered Mother's challenge.

 

“What happened to him?” Leliana asks, her voice soft.

 

Running her thumb over the red cloth, Hawke retorts with a question. “What does deathroot taste like?”

 

“Bitter. Not acidic, like vinegar. Rough, like charcoal and nettles. It’s unmistakable.” Then Leliana pauses, and looks at her shrewdly. “Unless you mix it with distilled spirits and strain it. Potato based. Like the tavern in Lothering is famous for.”

 

“But - but you were just children,” Josephine protests, a deep frown knotted in her brow. “So young, for her to have…”

 

Hawke laughs, hoarsely. “She didn’t.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“We looked very alike, when we were young, even two years apart. He had no idea it wasn’t Bethany that came to meet him like he'd ordered. I convinced him to have a glass first. Then two. Three. Everyone thought he killed himself from the drink.”

 

_You are not that person. That is the person you could have become, if you had let the world break you. You did not._

 

Pocketing Bethany’s handkerchief, Hawke smiles. _You didn’t let me._

 

_No._

 

“Send the emissaries,” Hawke says, to the astonishment of everyone around her. “Let them try. That’s the best I can give you.”

 

Cullen glares at her across the table. “You would have them seek a meeting you do not intend to keep.”

 

“You think it would be better to just ignore them?”

 

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. Hawke gives the order again, and Josephine nods, the discussion moving onto other things.

 

\---

 

Hours later, at the end of a long day of checking on the people of Haven, when she’s walking wearily back to her hut, Cullen corners Hawke in the street.

 

“You never used to see a difference. Between the Order and the people who serve it,” he points out without preamble, because apparently they have dispensed of that just like they’ve dispensed of looking at each other honestly. “What changed?”

 

Hawke snorts a laugh, pretending to be interested in crushing the snow beneath the toe of her boot. “You, of all people, should be able to work that out.”

 

“I, ah…”

 

There’s no one else here at this time of night. In the distance Hawke can see the torches that sit behind the watch, but here inside the walls it’s silent. Even the candlelight in most of the huts has gone out, and the sound from Flissa’s tavern has died down. That, Hawke reasons, must be why Cullen’s surprise shows on his face, and in his voice, and in the way his hand slips from his sword, as if he’s forgotten to be wary of her.

 

“It wasn’t just you,” she says, softly. She could let him believe that it is, but four years of not talking about things has made them boil in her gut like a festering heap of compost. “It was mostly him, if you can believe it.”

 

Cullen’s mouth closes into a grimace. “That seems unlikely.”

 

“No, it doesn’t.” Hawke steps closer, just enough to lower her voice - the street might be empty, but some habits are unbreakable. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours. Whose idea do you think it was? What happened in Kirkwall?”

 

“It wasn’t yours? That is - I assumed it was yours. You were the one who wanted children.”

 

Hawke smiles, a sad smile that’s little more than a turn of one side of her lips. “All I saw of Templars growing up was these horrors that lurked at the edge of the woods. He saw them much closer. He saw the people that jailed him _and_ he saw the ones who helped him. I just hated them. Every single one.”

 

“It was his idea, then,” Cullen says, sounding it aloud as if to convince himself.

 

“I said it should be someone who looked like him. He suggested you. I threw my drink in his face.” She reaches up and rubs at her cheek, trying to dispel the heat there. “He didn’t give up.”

 

“When he wanted something, he didn’t tend to.”

 

“...no.” She looks at the ground again, and misses the smirk that flashes across his face as she says, “he made me doubt what I’d thought. You - you proved his point.”

 

“Right.”

 

When she looks up again, Cullen is gone, and the snow has started to fall on her burning skin.

 

_Sometimes, I think he loved you before he loved me._

 

They leave for Redcliffe the next day.

 

\---

 

She recognises the raven the moment it comes towards her.

 

“Oh, shit,” she says, signalling the others to halt and swinging down from her horse.

 

How she’s managed to recognise a _bird_ of all things, Hawke isn’t sure, but she’s not going to question that too deeply. She reaches out her arm and, as it lands on her bracer, begins trying to untie the carefully wrapped letter around its leg.

 

“Hey Sera, have you got anything to feed him? Er, her? It. The bird.”

 

“Think it likes honey?”

 

She should never have let Sera keep bees. Nodding distractedly, Hawke finally gets the paper free and manages - just about - not to tear it open as she unrolls it. Stroud’s handwriting stares up at her, minuscule and neat, and she lets out a sharp breath.

 

“Hawke?” Varric asks, falling in next to her.

 

She takes another breath. “It’s from Stroud. He’s worried about the Wardens.” A frown knots deep lines in her brow. “It doesn’t say what; he wants to tell me in person. He sent Carver north when it - whatever it is - went wrong. He -”

 

_...left Adamant this morning. My only regret is that I could not convince anyone else to come with me. I tried, for your sake, but he would not come. I am sorry._

 

The paper starts shaking. It takes Hawke a moment to realise the trembling of her fingers is causing it. Varric, who would notice if she blinked oddly, plants a heavy hand on her shoulder. She tilts the paper, letting him read it.

 

“He could mean anyone, Waffles,” Varric says with false cheerfulness.

 

Hawke tries not to tear the paper as she tenses her fingers, willing them still. “He’s already told me about Carver. The only other Wardens I’ve ever met, let alone given a shit about are dead. He couldn’t mean anyone else, Varric. I - I didn’t even know he would be there. I can’t believe he went back to -”

 

She turns back to her horse and smooths the paper out, writing side down, on the saddle.

 

_Make sure they’re safe. Please. And tell me when you get somewhere we can meet. - H_

 

When her fingers fail her, Varric winds the message onto the raven’s legs and sends it on its way. “Why’s this damned bird so sticky?” he grumbles, as Hawke stands staring at nothing.

 

“Herald,” Cassandra says, pulling her horse up alongside them. “What is it?”

 

“My contact in the Wardens. They’ve been disappearing, and more besides - he’s trying to work out why.” She swallows, and rests a hand on her horse’s flank. “I have - people there.”

 

There’s a moment where it looks like Cassandra might ask her to elaborate, but a timely glare and a none-too-subtle gesture from Varric silences that. “We could ask Leliana to look into it.”

 

“I'm sure she’s already trying,” Hawke sighs, flaring her aura just to feel Compassion’s presence a little stronger.

 

It doesn’t help - her head isn’t here. It’s back in Kirkwall, looking at a man sitting on a crate, waiting for her to kill him. Maybe she should have killed him. Maybe she should have just done it, and then the world might’ve seen her for who she was, rather than holding her on a pedestal of rebellion.

 

_That’s not who you are, little bird. You let him live because you could not bear a world where he wasn’t alive. That hasn’t changed._

 

“I need a minute,” Hawke chokes out, fade stepping away from the path and into the undergrowth. It’s not far enough to take her out of sight at first, but her legs are operating without thought, taking her away from the others.

 

 _Maybe_ , Hawke thinks, as she stumbles to sit on a fallen log, _it should._

 

_You wish that you could stop loving him._

 

_I - I do._

 

_That is not how it works, little bird. Love is not something that you can light up or snuff out, like a lantern. Love is something that you have to work for._

 

Wrapping her arms around her legs, Hawke bends over and rests her head on her knees. _I know that. I know._

 

_Sometimes, it is just time to stop working for it._

 

How does she do that? How does she give up, just like that? They are too tied up together, too similar, two healers who wanted to fix a world that hated them for their magic. No, she would never have done what Anders did, but she would have had the thought. Would have wished it, even, in the darkest times.

 

Hasn’t she spent the last few years fighting to make his work worth something? Even when that work was murdering hundreds of people? The mages like her that she and Merrill had worked to save were so few. Most of them were just like him - so angry and lost that they didn’t even remember how to be normal anymore.

 

She’s spent four years trying to save _him_ , over and over.

 

_Oh. Shit._

 

“Cassandra,” she says, stumbling out of the trees in a daze, “the people we sent to Therinfal Redoubt. The nobles. Are they still there?”

 

“They are due to leave tomorrow.”

 

Hawke takes a breath. _This is how I break the cycle, then_.

 

_I save someone else._

 

“How long will it take us to get there?”

 

\---

 

The journey to Therinfal Redoubt is eerily quiet. Everyone around her is so shocked that they don’t even think to protest - Redcliffe is long behind them before Varric pulls her aside to check that she’s not gone totally fucking batshit (his words).

 

The Orlesian nobles are surprised to see her, but quickly dismiss it as yet another miracle of Andraste’s. Their insufferable ponciness - especially Abernache’s - sets Hawke so on edge that she has to summon Compassion’s aura to stop sparks of lightning from crackling between her fingers.

 

 _Maybe Bethany doesn’t get this from her father_ , she thinks to herself with a grimace.

 

Knight-Templar Barris, on the other hand, is a breath of fresh air. No nonsense, and Hawke’s certain from the moment that he looks at her that he’s a good man. He is, out of all of the people there, the only one with the good grace to look both afraid and pissed off all at once. Especially when asking her to go through a ritual, of all things.

 

There’s a moment where Hawke considers insisting he take her straight to the Lord Seeker anyway, but - no, she came here to do this properly.

 

Of course, the ritual isn’t - well, what she would’ve called a ritual.

 

She stares up at the flags for longer than she should, trying to work out what the trap is. Everything in politics is a trap, and this whole situation screams politics so loudly it’s hard to focus on anything at all.

 

In the end, she goes with her gut. Fuck the nobles. The People, then the Templars, then Andraste. Varric claps her on the shoulder in approval as she turns away from the winches, whilst Sera gives her an approving wink.

 

It’s after that when it starts to go tits up.

 

The moment she gets brought into the room, Hawke _knows_ something isn’t right. It’s on the air, like a bad smell, like something on the edge of her vision that she can’t quite focus on.

 

A part of her isn’t surprised when it turns out to be red lyrium.

 

\--

 

It doesn’t take long to work out that she isn’t in the waking world anymore; there’s no blood on her gloves. It's as if she hasn't just killed dozens of corrupted Templars.

 

Hawke shakes off the feeling of the Lord Seeker’s hands around her throat and blinks, trying to take stock of the place she’s in. Is it the Fade? It could be; it has that strange combination of _real_ and _not real_ and _too real_.

 

She picks her way past burning bodies that mirror the charred remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, trying to ignore the stench. By the time she’s close enough to make out Cullen and Josephine, she’s already on the verge of retching.

 

Seeing them doesn’t help.

 

 _This,_ she reminds herself, _is not real. Right?_

 

_Everything that happens in the Fade and in your mind is a part of your reality, little bird. But no - it is not them. It is not him. Whatever happens, he would not hurt you._

 

Grimacing, Hawke steps forward, ignoring the implication that this Cullen will.

 

“Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?”

 

The voice comes so abruptly that Hawke jumps, her eyes tearing away from not-Cullen’s oddly expressionless face and to not-Leliana’s. They stay there, lodged in horror as the creature steps behind not-Cullen, bringing a blade to his throat.

 

_It is not him. It is not him. It is not._

 

Lightning strains against the aura that, even in this place, Hawke still imagines playing over her skin.

 

She takes a deep breath, and barely registers whatever it is she says in reply - because, moments later, she watches the blood flowing down not-Cullen’s neck, watches his knees give out, his body collapse to the floor.

 

_It is not him. It is not him._

 

Hawke is sick then, loudly and emptily, achieving little more than scouring her throat with bile and making her sides cramp from the effort. Not-Josephine prowls around her as she kneels there, hands clutched into straw, her whole body shaking.

 

The demon serves Corypheus. This much she registers, as she does her best to banish the image of Cullen’s throat cut open so deeply it looks like the Breach. She manages it just as she gets to her feet, just as the demon shifts again, loses Josephine’s image and takes on his again.

 

Somehow, watching him stab her is a comfort in comparison. The demon spares no detail; he snakes a hand around not-Hawke’s waist and pushes the dagger up under her ribs in a single thrust, gentle and intimate all at once, before letting her drop to the ground. Another moment, and she is holding the dagger in her own hand, blood dripping from it and yet another image of herself.

 

But not-Cullen is gone. The demon is gone. She takes a deep breath.

 

_I am here, my beloved, my little bird. I am here. You are not alone. There is help here._

 

Just like she did in Kirkwall, Hawke puts one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, she remembers it is all that you can do. The images of Cassandra, and the Inquisition, and the pouring fountains of poison seem nothing in comparison. She’s even grateful for it - for the need to focus on timing, and fade stepping at the right moment, and working her way through to safety.

 

Then there is another voice.

 

_You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?_

 

Hawke freezes, one hand coming to rest on a stone doorframe. _Compassion?_

 

 _Yes,_ her Compassion says, _and no._

 

_Andraste’s tits, are there not enough beings in my head right now?_

 

_You can trust him, little bird. Like you can trust me._

 

Hawke moves onwards into the room, letting the door close behind her. This time, she doesn’t jump when the strange voice sounds again, soft and comforting like Compassion’s, but somehow completely different.

 

“I’m Cole,” the spirit says, “we’re inside you. Or I am - you’re always inside you. Same with her. I like her. She said hello. Lots of them don’t.”

 

Cole explains in his own way, but somehow, after years of having Compassion in her mind, it isn’t difficult for Hawke to understand. Compassion speaks a little more normally, of course, but Hawke knows what it's like to try and explain something that can’t be articulated.

 

He looks so young, wide eyes beneath a wider hat, and yet it’s the most empowering sight that there could be in this place made within her mind. WIth him at her side, even when he’s disappeared, Hawke feels far, far less afraid.

 

 _See,_ Compassion says as she moves on, _I told you._

 

Envy produces all of the fears she’s ever had about the Inquisition. It picks up on the horror she felt when Cullen died; it finds her tentative fondness and much less tentative respect for Mother Giselle and threatens her next; it shows her prisons with her friends and allies trapped within them.

 

She thinks of Bethany, imagines her wrapped in one of her barriers, shielded. She will _not_ let this demon have her daughter.

 

“Just keep going up,” Cole says, as she summons veilfire into brazier after brazier, lighting the way to freedom, demanding more of Envy than it can give. She begins running from one to the other, trying not to look at who lies in each cage.

 

Seeing Josephine behind bars, hearing her musical voice cracking into a sob, almost breaks her. Sweet, kind Josephine, clever and witty, whose first interaction with her was to help her care for her daughter. Who can work miracles that let you save people who have been your enemy for all of your life.

 

Hawke flares the aura that is just her imagination and moves onwards. Envy cannot keep her here. She has fought off demons before, and she will fight them off again, and she will not think of Cullen with blood pouring down his neck.

 

_That’s it, little bird. One more step. One step at a time._

 

The burning in her throat becomes one with the burning in her chest as Hawke runs, out of the building and through trees and shades, listening to Cole’s voice soothing and empowering her.

 

He’s right. She _is_ strong enough.

 

“Shut up, thing!” Envy snarls, and Hawke feels her own anger break through.

 

“He is _not a thing_!” she screams, imagining tearing herself through the Fade and jumping forward to the next staircase. Anger pushes away the burning in her chest and she runs, runs, runs through Therinfal all over again, dodging demons and soldiers and tears in the Fade that aren’t real because this is just in her mind.

 

 _It is real,_ Compassion reminds her. _It can hurt you. You are strong enough._

 

There. Those steps. Those are the steps to freedom.

 

“We’ll start again,” Envy snarls, when it’s pressed her back to the door - this time it’s in her own form, eyes glowing like Veilfire, body wreathed in shadows. “More pain, this time. I’ll kill him slower. Perhaps I’ll make you do it. Yes, that will work. I will tear out every fear you’ve ever had.”

 

Cole smiles. “It’s frightened of you.”

 

Bringing her knees up, Hawke kicks Envy so hard in the chest that they fly out of her mind with the force of it.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t have to explain that Something Happened in there; Varric knows.

 

Varric has seen what she looks like when the world breaks her on the inside, and she refuses to crack on the outside. So he interrupts, pushes away the questions from Cassandra and Sera, and reaches out to take her hand. To her credit, Cassandra steps forward and diverts Barris’s questions in the minutes it takes Hawke to recover.

 

It isn’t the memory that gets her, anymore; the image. It’s the fact that she can still feel the bile burning in her throat.

 

_Is Cole okay?_

 

_Yes. He is not within you anymore, but he left safely._

 

“That was not the Lord Seeker,” Hawke says, when she manages to stumble to her feet. They don’t need a broken woman right now. They need the Champion of Kirkwall.

 

She can do that, for them.

 

Between her, Cassandra and Barris, they have the Templars in the hall rallied quicker than she managed to rally herself. It’s a frantic pace, running out to find the still sane Templars and back to keep the hall safe, but Hawke is grateful for the distraction - if she’s thinking about the Templars’ wounds and shielding the others from assault, she isn’t thinking about bloody cuts in beloved throats.

 

When they find Envy, he doesn’t go down easily - even with Cole at their side, more in the flesh but still vanishing at every opportunity. Sera and Varric both go down before the battle is over, and soon the bile in her throat is replaced with the cloying warmth of lyrium, the knot in her chest with pain from her own wounds.

 

Hawke walks up to the remaining Templars with heavy, slow steps.

 

“The Templars,” Barris says, “are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.”

 

He still looks at her with uncertainty; this is a man whose trust she is going to have to earn, Hawke thinks. So she does not spare him the truth. “We need help,” she says, clicking her staff onto the stone and leaning on it heavily. “We need hope. So do you. Hope comes from the unlikeliest places. I think we can find it. Together."

 

Hawke lets her eyes scan over the other Templars as Barris replies. To her surprise, they don’t look as suspicious. They look tired, broken...even grateful. Maybe the tiniest bit hopeful. She knows that expression. She’s held it enough, through her life.

 

It doesn’t stop the weight of Barris’s words, of the choice placed before her, from hitting her.

 

Gripping her staff tightly, Hawke looks him in the eye, and does what the Champion of Kirkwall would do.

 

\---

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Their procession is an unsteady one, with the most wounded Templars held onto horses by those less injured. Hawke’s healed many of them, but some were left hurt for too long - mending a broken bone is one thing, but fixing one that set wrong is something else entirely.

 

So it’s not a united force that Cullen addresses with his remark, hoarse and astonished. It’s just Hawke, breathless from the relief of seeing him alive.

 

She looks over his shoulder and watches Barris unload one of the wounded, passing him over to the Inquisition soldiers to be carried to the Chantry. Near them, she can see Mother Giselle eyeing her appraisingly - and a little approvingly - as she speaks with Cassandra and Varric.

 

“Hawke,” Cullen says, stepping forward to grab her by the arm when she doesn’t reply, “what did you do?”

 

“I guess I picked your side this time.”

 

He freezes, fingers grasping her arm so tightly she can feel the seams of her armour pinching her skin. “The Order is not my side,” he points out, voice low.

 

“I know.”

 

“But -”

 

“These Templars are not part of the Order, Cullen.” She takes a deep breath, staring at his unblemished throat. “I disbanded it.”

 

Though his fingers let go, Cullen’s eyes bore into her as she waves Barris over and turns to face the bulk of the unmounted Templars that have now come up behind them. They come to a halt and salute her in a way that makes her stomach flip.

 

 _Well, that’s certainly disconcerting_.

 

“Knight-Templar Barris,” she says, doing her best to use what Varric had always called her ‘Champion voice’. “Templars. This is Commander Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s forces. Commander, these are your new recruits.”

 

Every single one of them stands to attention and salutes him, just as they did her, but Cullen barely looks at them - his eyes remain staring at her, as if seeing her for the very first time. His mouth shifts, working words that he doesn’t let past his lips.

 

“I believe you will find you have a great deal in common,” she says to Barris, before looking at Cullen and gesturing to the others. “I will leave you to it.”

 

\---

 

Later that night, Hawke and Merrill lie in bed, Bethany curled up between them with their fingers laced together over her. By the door, Varric snores in a chair, Bianca resting in his lap. There’s more than enough beds for all of them, but something about this feels better. More normal.

 

“Hawke?” Merrill asks, wide eyes glinting in the candlelight. “What happened?”

 

Hawke swallows, and looks down at Bethany. “There’s something wrong with the Wardens. A-Anders is with them.”

 

“Oh, lethallan.”

 

“I got a letter from Stroud when we were travelling.”

 

“Is Carver -” Merrill stammers, her cheeks flushing slightly.

 

“He’s fine,” Hawke urges at once, squeezing Merrill’s hand. “At least, Stroud sent him away. But - but Anders is with the others.”

 

“I can’t believe he would go back.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

Merrill runs her thumb over the back of Hawke’s hand, wriggling her head against the pillow and sighing. “I think you’re not telling me everything.”

 

For a moment, it goes quiet. Bethany wriggles between them, trying to cling closer to both of them at once, and Hawke lets go of Merrill’s hand so she can pull both of them close to her instead. In Kirkwall, she’d always taken the fact that her bed wasn’t empty for granted. Now, she can’t sleep without someone to hold onto.

 

Quietly, when Merrill’s forehead is resting against hers, Hawke says, “It’s the things we don’t talk about.”

 

“I thought so. You do that thing with your face around Cullen, too.” Hawke raises an eyebrow, and Merrill continues, “Ooh, have you never noticed? I suppose you wouldn’t, since you’re not looking at yourself. You wrinkle your nose up, it’s very cute, like you’re trying not to sneeze. So are we going to talk about it, or would you like to keep not talking about it?”

 

Hawke looks down at the mess of red-gold hair resting against her chest, and laughs softly, suddenly conscious of her own face. “We wanted children. Anders and I. But Wardens can’t - well, they can, but it’s not as easy. Not likely at all. So we decided to get help.”

 

“Ooh,” Merrill hums, her voice rising in pitch - she manages, at least, to keep it quiet, though her eyes look like they’re going to pop out of her face. “Creators, they _do_ look just like each other! Wait, Hawke, is Bethany -”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“But he’s a Templar! Or he was, at least, I know now it’s a bit different.”

 

“That - yes, well, it took a bit of getting used to. Anders met him before, a long time ago, in the Ferelden Circle. Apparently he -” Hawke stumbles only slightly, not out of pain, but surprise as she realises that this _isn’t_ making her feel awful to talk about. “Let’s just say he took a shine to him, and the shine hadn’t worn off.”

 

“I remember him visiting! I thought he was just helping keep the rest of the Order off our backs.” Merrill’s face creases into an impish grin, her usual innocence dissolving. “I suppose I would have done too, if I was getting _that_ out of it. But - ooh, if it was all three of you, especially them...well, men don’t make babies together.”

 

Heat searing her cheeks, Hawke resigns herself to an hour of telling Merrill an awful lot of details that she never thought she was going to. She pretends, politely, not to notice when Varric wakes up halfway through and listens in.

 

In a strange way, facing her memories head on is exactly the distraction she needs.

 

\---

 

They don’t waste time. No one wants to, and Cullen’s got the Templars organised with such efficiency that they only end up needing the night to recover. Hawke spends as much time as she can in the Chantry with them, tending the harder wounds that she couldn’t look to on the road - the three Templars left there won’t be able to help seal the Breach, but at least they won’t be in pain anymore.

 

It’s early afternoon when the procession makes its way from Haven to the Temple. The civilians stand up in lines to watch them leave, and Hawke suspects that if Cullen hadn’t stopped them, they would have followed them all the way up. Instead they are left watching as Hawke departs, in this week’s new set of armour from Harritt - a long, sleeveless leather coat of deep blue, with a white tunic and black trousers.

 

Soon the sound of chatter has left them behind, and there is just the slow, steady climb.

 

“He watches you,” Cole murmurs in her ear, when they are halfway up. “He knows you look at him with a memory he does not have, but the thought is shapeless to him, a sphere of sorrow set with spikes.”

 

She hasn’t seen Cole since he appeared on the war table, but it doesn’t surprise her. Of course he’s here. She trusts him, just like Compassion told her to, and the people you trust are there when you need them.

 

Even if it’s with truths you don’t want to hear.

 

“Later,” she promises, and she means it. “I owe Cassandra the explanation anyway.”

 

Cole tilts his head to the side, the gesture exaggerated by the wide brim of his hat, and vanishes. Whether that’s acceptance or uncertainty, she can’t tell.

 

Heading into the Temple again is strange - not because it’s a ruin. She’s seen that before. It’s because it seems so long ago, now, that she was here before. As if it had been years rather than weeks. So much has happened, and so much has changed, and it feels too soon to have finally managed to fix the world.

 

The doubt sets in when, surrounded by several exhausted Templars and beneath the eyes of a scrutinising Solas, Hawke realises that closing the Breach has not removed her mark.

 

“If it’s still here,” she murmurs, “it’s still killing me.”

 

Solas nods, and walks away.

 

 _Shit_.

 

\---

 

The people of Haven are already celebrating before they arrive back, and a mug of ale Hawke doesn’t want is pressed into her hands within seconds of making it through the gates. She hands it off to one of the soldiers near her, who looks as if she’s just handed him Andraste’s ashes, before downing it in one fell swoop and praising her name.

 

Well, praising her title.

 

It turns out there isn’t much difference to listening to people chant _Champion! The Champion!_ than there is to people chanting _t_ _he Herald of Andraste!_  religious connotations aside. It still makes her as uncomfortable as it always has done.

 

So to her astonishment, Hawke finds herself - and Bethany and Merrill, who have endured an hour of being celebrated as her family - hiding in the Chantry, of all places. Not in the war room, because that feels a bit too much like giving in to the knot within her gut that screams _not done yet_ \- instead, they hide in Josephine’s.

 

Who comes in partway through to find something, and pulls Hawke into a hug, kissing her forehead before disappearing with flushed cheeks. The scent of floral gin hangs in the wake of the Ambassador's lips, and Hawke finds herself smiling despite herself.

 

Not long after that, a knock at the door reveals Cullen, who has managed to look about as relaxed as she has - less than not at all.

 

“Hello!” Bethany pronounces proudly, waving from her seat behind Josephine’s desk.

 

“Ah, good evening.”

 

“We’ve tried to convince her to move,” Hawke says, eyes flicking fondly over to Bethany, “but she insists she is now the Ambassador, and we have to do what she says.”

 

Cullen recovers quickly from what, Hawke realises on reflection, was quite a friendly interaction. Something he’s had neither with her nor Bethany.

 

“One must always be certain to do as the Ambassador commands,” he says, inclining his head formally towards Bethany. “In fact, the Am - the _former_ Ambassador mentioned you were in here. I wanted to ensure you were well.”

 

Again, Hawke finds her eyes drifting towards his throat. Still whole. Still unblemished. His knees aren’t buckling and he isn’t collapsing to the floor, vanishing into mist. This Cullen is real, and he is not dead.

 

“I am,” she says, then pauses. “My hand hurts. I feel like I ran to the Hinterlands and back. Compassion is incessantly trying to get me to sleep. But I’m fine.”

 

Cullen frowns. “You should do as _she_ tells you, too.”

 

“It’s too loud to sleep.”

 

He accepts this as truth, and excuses himself before Hawke finds herself forced to lie further. The truth is that she doesn’t feel like this is real, and like the axe is going to fall at any moment, but she isn’t going to say that. Not in front of him. Definitely not in front of Bethany.

 

Varric stumbles in a while later. If it were anyone else, Hawke would’ve called them the sort of drunk that’s about to become horizontal - on Varric, she recognises it to be just comfortably intoxicated. He performs a series of bows to the newly, self-appointed Ambassador, then holds out a hand to Hawke.

 

“Come on, Waffles. Up. If you hide in here all night, they’ll start a riot. Maybe an Exalted March. History says that goes badly for Daisy here."

 

It takes until he’s on the verge of picking her up and dragging her out there for Hawke to agree, pulling herself to her feet and putting her coat back on. She looks over at Bethany, who has now convinced Merrill to sit opposite her as if she were holding court.

 

“Would the Ambassador like to join us?” Hawke asks.

 

Bethany imperiously shakes her head, sending curls tumbling. “I must attend to my subjects,” she says, rather missing the mark on an Ambassador’s duties, but looking perfect nonetheless.

 

It hurts just a little bit to leave her there.

 

They make it to just outside the Chantry before they meet Cassandra, who doesn’t look drunk in the slightest. She has the same pensive look as the three of them stand and look over the village, hearing the sound of cheering and singing in the distance.

 

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm,” Cassandra begins, giving Hawke the update she already knows. The formality of it is comforting nonetheless, even if she has to remind Cassandra that it wasn’t _just_ her who closed the Breach.

 

Then the bell starts ringing; the knot in Hawke’s gut releases, sated by its vindication.

 

“Varric,” Hawke snaps, weaving a haste spell with her freehand, “tell Merrill to keep Bethany in there, then come and join us. Cassandra, with me.”

 

As they charge off towards the gates, the sound of Varric’s footfalls fading behind them, Hawke hears Cullen’s voice calling above the rest: “To arms! To arms!”

 

Maker.

 

The Inquisition are drunk. They’re celebrating. They are in no position to fight whatever’s come. They pick up into a run, and Sera falls in beside them, with Blackwall close on her heels.

 

“What the shit is going on?” Sera asks, nocking an arrow.

 

Blackwall grimaces. “That bell doesn’t ring for nothing good.”

 

By the time they get to the gates, they’ve been closed - soldiers are manning the watchpoints, and Cullen is standing grim faced with Barris and two more Templars. He looks up at her as she approaches, even though Cassandra calls out to him.

 

“It’s a massive force,” he says, his voice strong. In this moment, he doesn’t look doubtful; he doesn’t look afraid. He looks so calm that it assauges her own fear, a confidence that she would have given anything in that moment to possess. “The bulk over the mountain.”

 

“Under what banner?” Josephine asks.

 

Cullen grimaces. “None.”

 

With everyone inside, the last thing Hawke expects is someone hammering on the door. She certainly doesn’t expect it to contain a Tevinter mage, and she definitely doesn’t expect him to be there in an effort to save everyone. Fortunately for Hawke, Dorian Pavus is none of the things she expects, and everything that she needs.

 

It gives them some time. It isn’t enough.

 

They hold the mages off for as long as they can, but they’ve few Templars, not enough soldiers, and Haven was never made for defending a force that big. Getting the trebuchets working makes a difference, but the dragon - Corypheus’s dragon, a sodding archdemon of all things - just takes them out with fire and death.

 

It feels like both hours and seconds until Cullen sounds the retreat. Hawke can barely keep up - they’re everywhere, trying desperately to save people from burning buildings. It’s close with Adan; his skin is seared with burns as they pull him out of the explosion, but he’s alive. She heals him quickly, sending him stumbling onwards as she turns to take out the mages that have come up behind them.

 

Cullen’s command rings in her head, his angry expression with it: _At this point, just make them work for it._

 

\---

 

But Hawke refuses to accept that they are going to die.

 

She brings everyone into the Chantry as Roderick stumbles into Dorian’s arms, panting and coughing up blood. “A brave man,” Dorian says with finality, and Hawke feels a surge of anger.

 

“No,” she says, though she can sense the hole in his gut, the infection that will kill him if the blood loss doesn’t. “he’s not dying. Not one more.”

 

_I’m ready._

 

As people scramble towards the back of the Chantry, Hawke drops her staff and focuses, pulling so much of Compassion through than her body can barely take it. It makes the aura around her skin glow so brightly that it’s almost blinding - like snow on her eyelashes, everywhere Hawke looks there is blue-white. Her body turns cold, but every hair on her limbs tries to stand on end under her armour.

 

Even just the start of the spell makes Roderick gasp - Dorian, holding him, seems to start glowing too, though it’s probably just a trick of the light. Hawke steps forward and presses her palms into the Chancellor’s abdomen, sending freezing energy flooding into his body, searing away both the wound and the infection with it. He shudders and cries out - this hurts, Hawke knows, she remembers Anders doing it to her after her fight with the Arishok - and is left gasping by the time she takes her hands away.

 

“Lyrium,” she croaks, but Cole is already there, pressing a vial into her hands. She downs it and stops swaying quite so badly as Compassion’s light dims.

 

The Chancellor stumbles to a seat, clutching his hands to his gut and then lifting them away, words working soundlessly on his lips. Harsh footsteps herald Cullen’s approach, and grim resignation fills his report.

 

“From what I gathered,” Dorian remarks angrily, “this Elder One marched all the way here to kill you, Herald.”

 

“Corypheus,” Hawke corrects, taking her staff as Sera hands her it. “He’s one of the Magisters Sidereal. The Wardens imprisoned him, and I let him out. When we live, I’ll tell you the whole damn story.”

 

Dorian’s mouth falls open.

 

“We need a plan,” Hawke says.

 

A hand clutches her upper arm again; Cullen turns her, looks at her with an anger she’s only seen once before, in Kirkwall when Meredith brought statues to life with tainted lyrium.

 

“This isn’t about survival anymore,” he snarls, the rest of his words seeming distant in comparison. “It’s about how spitefully we end this.”

 

Pushing through the soldiers and civilians, Merrill appears, with Bethany clutching at her side. Both of them visibly sag with relief as they see Hawke, though neither comes bounding up - whether because her hands are now caked in Roderick’s blood or because the situation is too serious, she can’t tell. Varric takes up position next to them like a sentinel.

 

“No. No, I won’t accept that. I am _not_ watching you die again!”

 

Her voice rises to a yell, and cracks with high pitch at the end. Cullen’s hand tightens around her arm. “Marian -”

 

“We need a way out,” Hawke says, just as Roderick starts to stumble to his feet. “You, sit down. You’re barely alive.”

 

“Herald,” he croaks, standing up with a determination she hadn’t known he possessed. “Yes. You are. You must be. That must be why I am here, to show you the path. You wouldn’t know it's there unless you’d taken the Summer pilgrimage. I might be the last person alive who does, after the Conclave."

 

She frowns, but hope flickers in her chest, a small but defiant light. “Path?”

 

Roderick explains, and the light becomes a beam. Around her arm, Cullen’s fingers tighten painfully, though whether it's for support or his own expression of hope she can't tell.

 

“Cole, Dorian, help the Chancellor get wherever he needs to go. Make sure the way is clear.”

 

“I will get the people organised,” Josephine says, biting her lip and skittering away. Leliana looks at Hawke with hard eyes, then follows as silently as she appeared.

 

_A distraction. We need a distraction. And Corypheus is here for me._

 

“Bethany, come here please,” Hawke says, her voice sounding hollow even to her. “I need you to do something for me.”

 

Bethany frowns, but nods. “Anything, Mama.”

 

“It’s a very important job, and I need people I trust doing it.” She gestures to her side. “You’re going to go with the Commander, and help him make sure that everyone in here gets to safety. You stay with him no matter what happens, understand?”

 

“Why can’t I stay with Auntie Merrill?”

 

“Because I have an important job for Auntie Merrill, too. And for your Uncle Varric.” She steels herself, trying to get the shake out of her voice. “So can you do that for me, Bethy? Can you stay with the Commander?”

 

Bethany nods, though her frown hasn’t gone away, and Hawke looks up into Cullen’s eyes. _Don’t say anything_ , she prays silently. _Not now. If you stop me, I won’t be able to go, and I have to._ She leans her staff against her shoulder, and places that hand over his. _Please._

 

“I would greatly appreciate your help, Bethany,” he says, his voice tight as he lets go of Hawke and holds out his hand to her daughter. “Moving a lot of people is very difficult.”

 

Cullen’s fingers graze over the side of her arm as he lets go.

 

Her throat seems so dry, even though she can still taste lyrium on her lips. “You should go right away, that’s a lot of people to move. I’ll see you later, Bethy.”

 

She watches them for longer than she has time for - the dragon, the archdemon, is still roaring outside. She can't help it. She has to see them vanish into the already moving crowd, info safety.

 

“The rest of you,” Hawke says, when Cullen and Bethany are out of earshot, “are going to guard the rear.”

 

“And you are…” There’s suspicion thick in Varric’s voice, and his eyes are looking upon her darkly.

 

She rests her hand on his arm, feeling the melting snow on his coat. “There’s a trebuchet left,” she reminds him, echoing Cullen's earlier observation as she looks at the closed Chantry doors.

 

“ _No_.”

 

“There’s no _time_ , Varric. Don’t make me have Merrill put you to sleep, because I _will_ do it. I’m not risking the rest of you. It’s me he wants.” She shakes his arm off as he grabs for hers. “This isn’t negotiable. Get after them, all of you, and do not let a single one of those people die. You understand me? No one else is dying today."

 

A few moments later, when she’s slamming the door closed behind her, Hawke hears Varric screaming as he pounds on the unyielding wood.

 

\---

 

 _Oh, little bird_.

 

Compassion’s whisper fades away as Hawke lets the aura fall, hasting herself and breaking into a full sprint through the village. Spells begin to fly towards her - she weaves a barrier, then looks over her shoulder to the cluster of mages and holds out her hand, palm up. She lifts it - the group of them rise up - clenches it into a fist, and casts it and the mages down to the ground.

 

The next group she paralyses as they charge over a hastily laid glyph. Another group she ices with a Fade step, shifting through them and leaving crystals over their frozen forms. By the time she’s made it to the trebuchet there are four, maybe five groups of the rebel mages behind her.

 

Faster than sight, Hawke begins cranking the trebuchet’s handle. The wood leaves instant blisters on her palms as she turns it once, twice, three times, the machine turning painfully slowly towards the mountains.

 

Above her, the dragon roars.

 

“There she is!” calls a voice, and Hawke turns - it takes a moment for her to place Fiona’s face, and when she does she grimaces.

 

Not wanting to move from the handle, Hawke bangs her staff hard against the ground, summoning an array of glyphs in a wide ring around her. With her free hand she keeps cranking, casting with her staff and her voice rather than both hands - a trick she learned from Merrill when they both exhausted themselves so much their offhands were constantly holding bottles of lyrium.

 

The mercenaries with Fiona get trapped, but the Grand Enchanter’s spells don’t - and she isn’t going to be a pushover, Hawke knows. But she doesn’t have to kill her. She just has to endure. So gritting her teeth, Hawke calls a ring down just behind Fiona, yanking her into its pull, and calls Compassion back to her.

 

 _Keep me going_ , she begs, her left arm burning with fatigue. _Just keep me alive_.

 

 _Always_ , Compassion replies.

 

She’s got it well over halfway there when the ring wears off, freeing Fiona. The mercenaries and a few other mages foolish enough to rush forward get caught in more mines, but reinforcements are arriving now - the ones that she froze and trapped throughout the village. Fiona laughs, an inhuman sound, and sends fire lancing towards her.

 

Hawke screams ice around her in a wall. It’s everything she has to not let go of the handle, to keep turning it, to keep edging closer to safe. Time slows - no, that’s her haste wearing off, but she’s so close now, just a little bit further.

 

It locks into place just as Fiona flanks her with a bolt of searing lightning.

 

\---

 

By the time the Archdemon sets fire to a strip of the ground as wide as the Chantry’s main room, Hawke is broken.

 

Fiona dies in the blast, her screams becoming the roar of the flame, and Hawke lies motionless on the ground. Snow cools her back, and the flame heats her face, but neither compare to the pain that floods through her limbs. She can’t just lie here. She can’t. They need the distraction, need the trebuchet, need something to drive Corypheus away that isn’t just her.

 

Because no matter what Varric thinks, this is _not_ a sacrifice. Hawke is not going to die. She said no one else would, and she meant it. She becomes more certain of that in the second that she lies on the floor, hearing painfully familiar footsteps, than she was even in the Chantry.

 

She is going to live.

 

She is not going to die without saving these people. Without hugging her brother again. Without seeing her daughter grow up. She is not. She refuses.

 

Hawke stands up, and looks into the face of an archdemon.

 

“Enough,” Corypheus says, and the dragon roars into the sky. “My deliverer. You toy with forces beyond your ken - no more.”

 

Embers drift in the wind past her, and Hawke laughs. Compassion’s aura falls away as the last of her energy goes with it, her magic truly exhausted. Her staff is - somewhere. Hawke holds up her empty hands as if in greeting.

 

“Magister!” she calls, with the cheeriness of someone staring into the face of death. “So kind of you to visit. You know, most people say thank you with flowers, not by burning everyone in sight.”

 

“Usurper! Pretender!” he snaps, not stepping towards her, but seeming to loom all the closer. “Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt me. Exalt my will! You _will_ kneel.”

 

“Have you, perhaps, forgotten that time that I killed you?”

 

“I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins - now.”

 

Hawke was wrong. She was not in pain. That was not pain, the fire lancing through her every nerve ending.

 

This is.

 

Corypheus holds something aloft in his left hand, an orb cracked with power that reminds her of red lyrium, and her mark makes an unearthly sound. It doesn’t just hurt her body - it hurts the part of her that lingers in the Fade. It tears as if the Veil were fully opening through her, and Hawke realise with a sob that she is so glad, so very glad that Compassion is gone. This could have destroyed her.

 

Somehow Corypheus’s voice reaches her through the pain, the truth of his plan becoming clear. If she survives this - no! _When_ she survives this - she will make him regret giving her everything she wants.

 

“Go fuck yourself,” she spits when he’s done, and Corypheus lifts her from the floor like an unruly dog.

 

“Beg that I succeed,” he concludes, when it feels like her arm is about to wrench from its socket. “For I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty.”

 

The wood and metal of the trebuchet cracks hard against Hawke’s back as he hurls her there. Her legs no longer seem to work - they are heavy, and so is she. She could just close her eyes -

 

She does. She sees Bethany behind them, hand clasped in Cullen’s.

 

“The anchor is permanent. You have spoilt it with your stumbling. So be it - I will begin again. Find another way to give this world the nation, and God, it requires.”

 

Hawke’s eyes open in time to see the flare.

 

“And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You - must - die.”

 

She smiles, hand on the hilt of a Templar’s blade.

 

“I said,” she growls, stumbling to her feet and lifting the sword, “go fuck yourself.”

 

Sparks fly from the metal of the trebuchet’s handle as she swings into it with all of her might; Corypheus screams.

 

Everything goes light, then dark.

 


	2. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke survives on stubbornness and luck - those around her have to pick up the pieces. And, as if that isn't enough, something is going very wrong with the Grey Wardens.
> 
> ...including Carver. And Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and lovely comments! This chapter was originally supposed to have Halamshiral in as well, but...well...yeah...

“There’ll be no hunting in this blizzard. Feed the children, wounded and anyone who’s in shock first. The rest of us will have to make do with water.”

 

“Yes, Commander.” 

 

The tent flutters as Barris departs, the wind surging another gust into its side. It, like the entire camp, was not designed for this weather - but Cullen wasn’t going to take a hundred people through a blizzard in the middle of the night. The supplies they’d managed to grab on their way out, plus what they'd scavenged from the mountainside, would have to do. At least, thank the Maker, they’d stored a reasonable amount in the Chantry.

 

A hand pats him on the side of the neck - or rather, smudges the scratchy blanket enveloping it into him.

 

“Sit,” Bethany commands, staring at him imperiously with her mother’s eyes. When he starts to shift her from his hip, she bats him again with the blanket. “Not me. You.”

 

There’s a chair in the corner of the tent. How there is a chair here, Cullen has no idea - but he murmurs a prayer for whoever it was that looked at the contents of the Chantry and decided that it was worth it to haul a chair through the pilgrimage path and beyond.

 

He sits into it gingerly, swinging Bethany’s legs round to cross over his lap, and sighs. Sitting is dangerous; sitting will make him realise how tired he is. One of the first things you learned as a trainee was that sometimes, the only way onwards was to keep pushing yourself. But something in Bethany’s voice is familiar, too familiar. So he sits.

 

“Now,” Bethany pronounces, lifting her blanket and moving it so that it covers his right arm as well as herself, “we’re going to talk about finding Mama.”

 

_ Maker’s breath, child, don’t make me talk to you about this. Not now. I’m not ready. _

 

“There is a blizzard outside, Bethany,” he says softly, settling the too-big hat back over her hair. “We won’t be able to see to find her. If - if she’s near us at all.”

 

Bethany stares at him. “I don’t think you should listen to the people outside.”

 

“The people outside?”

 

“The ones who say she’s dead. Mama isn’t dead. Mama promised me she would see me soon.” She places her hand on top of his. “We can find her.”

 

Precisely how articulate are three year olds supposed to be? Cullen has  _ met _ children, of course, but he’s not spent a great deal of time around them. Is this level of speech normal? More to the point, should he feel ashamed that a child, a toddler, is showing more stubbornness and determination than a man ten times her age?

 

“Bethany, the blanket is to keep you warm,” he says distractedly, as she throws it off.

 

She grabs at his hand. “I know where she is.”

 

“W-what?”

 

“I can feel her. Away. Down and up both. She’s moving, but very slowly.”

 

_ This is impossible. _

 

Except - it isn’t. Because Bethany’s eyes, Hawke’s blue eyes, aren’t looking bluer to him because he recognises them. They look bluer because they’re  _ glowing. _

 

Which means he does recognise them. They just belong to someone else entirely.

 

“If I take you out there,” he says, dropping his voice to a disbelieving whisper, “you can show me the way?”

 

A brilliant smile lights up Bethany’s face, making it shine almost as brightly as the magic in her eyes. She turns in his lap and puts her arms round him - or against his pauldrons at least - and lets out a squeal of delight.

 

“Now! Now!” she commands, trying to stand up on his knees. It makes her lose her balance, but Cullen catches her, pulling her back up onto his hip and returning the blanket to its place around her shoulders. She’ll need it, if they really are going to do this ridiculous thing.

 

_ Why am I trusting a child?  _ he thinks to himself, even as he thinks,  _ because she’s not just any child. She’s Hawke’s. _

 

Cullen suppresses the thought that follows - the question of who else’s child she is. His own eyes have never glowed.

 

“Cassandra!” Cullen calls as they step out into the camp, where the fire is surrounded by everyone capable of holding themselves upright - and a few people who aren’t.

 

“Yes?”

 

The Seeker detaches herself from talking to Josephine and is at his side in an instant. Neither of them have left readiness, not for a moment. At some point he’ll need to order her to get some rest, and that will go about as well as when she did the same thing to him earlier.

 

Whatever he means to ask her, Cullen isn’t sure. But it certainly isn’t what comes out of his mouth. “Do you trust me?”

 

Cassandra narrows his eyes and looks at his hands. “Why?”

 

“There’s no tremor,” he says, holding his right hand out whilst the left arm holds Bethany. “It isn’t that. I need you to get Merrill and Varric. Armed. Tell them we’re going out of the camp.”

 

Though she protests, Cassandra doesn’t ask many more questions. Just enough, Cullen thinks, to be sure that he’s not in withdrawal (stupid, really - he’s always in withdrawal). She disappears for as long as it takes him to call two of the soldiers up with torches for the journey, and reappears a moment later with the others.

 

Varric says nothing - but then Varric has said nothing since Hawke went out of the Chantry. There have been no quips, no remarks, not even so much as a wry smile. He’s followed Merrill around instead, carrying lyrium potions and blankets and anything else that the elf needed to help the Inquisition’s healers.

 

What Merrill herself has been doing, Cullen has ignored. He knows her well enough to suspect what makes her so good at triaging the patients. Now is not the time to bring up whether the Inquisition ought to accept the help of a blood mage.

 

“So,” she says, a little too cheerily, “where are we going?”

 

Before Bethany can interject, Cullen waves the others on and leads them out of the camp. 

 

The wind and snow hit them hard as soon as they get out of the protection of the tents. The child in his arms burrows against him, and Cullen quickly shifts to draw his shield. Cassandra moves in, helping him strap the shield to his arm, which he then uses to hold Bethany and protect her from the worst of it all at once.

 

With the other, he reaches down and pulls the blanket up over her head, looking at her intently.

 

“Which way?”

 

Reaching a single hand out of the blankets, Bethany points up the hill. Cullen starts walking - he goes several paces before he realises that no one else is following him.

 

“Cullen?” Cassandra calls, astonished.

 

“Trust me, Cassandra.”

 

“I do. I trust you. But you - you are trusting a child! This blizzard will kill us. It will kill her!”

 

It looks like her protest is going to continue, but she stops as Varric steps around her, not quite pushing her to the side, but making her step back with the abrupt force of his movement. It takes him almost twice as many steps to get through the drifts as it did Cullen.

 

“Goldie,” Varric says, in a voice that would be quiet if he wasn’t having to call over the wind. “You know where she is?”

 

Bethany nods.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, good kid. I’m sure your mother will be real proud of that one. You said this way, right? Well? What are we all standing around for? My best friend is dying out there, you nug munchers!”

 

As he steps past them, Varric’s gaze shifts from Bethany’s to Cullen’s - it might be respect, or determination, or something else entirely. Either way it’s gone in a moment, replaced by Merrill’s beaming expression as she - lighter and more dexterous than any of them - all but skips over the snow to catch up with them.

 

“Ooh, I  _ knew  _ she was right about you. Come on, then!”

 

The five of them stumble on into the blizzard, following the instructions of a child with glowing eyes.

 

\---

 

Hawke wriggles her toes experimentally, then looks up above her head and wriggles her fingers too, just for good measure. There’s no tingling in either, which is a good sign, or at least that’s what Anders has told her is a good sign. She’s not an expert; he is.

 

“I do have a question,” she says, barely waiting a second for a reply. “If you do this in the Circle Tower, what in Andraste’s name do you say when a Templar walks in?”

 

Warm, breathy laughter ripples over her bare stomach. “You say please. Obviously.”

 

“That is most certainly  _ not _ what would happen.”

 

“The Kirkwall Circle is very different, Cullen,” Anders points out, pressing a kiss just below Hawke’s bellybutton that’s so light it makes her tremble. “Here, you tie mages up for business, not pleasure.”

 

Behind her, Hawke hears Cullen groan, a sound that is more growl than anything. “This only works if we don’t talk about the rest of the world.”

 

“Really? I thought it worked because you couldn’t get enough of fucking us.”

 

“Anders,” Hawke interjects, sighing heavily and kicking her legs so that she swings from the rope around her wrists, “I don’t think this Templar is going to make me beg him for anything.”

 

Anders stands up and catches her by the waist, holding her still so that her toes go back to brushing the carpet. “That’s disappointing, love.”

 

“It is,” agrees Hawke, lifting her head so he can kiss her. “After all this effort we went to, too. I guess he thinks he couldn’t manage it. I suppose you’ll have t - oh,  _ fuck.” _

 

Sometimes, she swears, Cullen moves deliberately loudly so that they’ll forget how quiet he can be when he wants to. Or slowly, so they forget how quickly he can strike. If he were their enemy, Hawke reasons, he could easily use it to kill them.

 

Instead he uses it to get his arms around her legs and pulls. Instinctively, Anders tightens his grip on her waist; the two of them pull her in opposite directions, which only serves to make Cullen’s cock thrust into her all the deeper.

 

“Oh,” Anders all but whimpers into her mouth, his gaze over her shoulder. “I wish you could’ve seen her face just then.”

 

Cullen smirks. “You’re welcome,” he says, lifting one hand to run it through Anders’s hair, then tugs, urging him away. “Now get on your knees and we’ll both make her beg.”

 

The touch of Anders’s lips against her is cold.

 

Too cold.

 

Suddenly Cullen’s body feels icy against her too, his fingertips like frozen metal on her burning skin, her eyes screwing closed as she gasps for a breath that sears frost into her lungs. Everything is tight, too tight, there’s no air and there’s no warmth and it’s all dark, everything is dark.

 

Fire and ice warring in her chest, Hawke opens her eyes and looks at snow over deadly ice, her bare hands splayed into the frozen wasteland.

 

She gasps another breath, and this time a hideous stench comes with it - the charred remains of shades and despair demons and more. The tunnel flickers green, green, then barely broken darkness again. Underneath her left hand, the same light flickers and goes out.

 

_ This, _ she thinks,  _ is not Haven. _

 

\---

 

They are halfway up the mountainside when Bethany’s magic starts to become a problem.

 

A few sparks have already fallen from her fingertips, tumbling harmlessly to the snow - Cullen hasn’t commented on them, but he’s noticed that Merrill is walking right up alongside them now, no longer skittering ahead with Cassandra. Varric is behind them, crossbow loaded in his hands, his eyes scanning the snow with renewed hope.

 

Then, the sparks turn to licks of flame.

 

“Ahh!” Bethany shrieks, as the blanket begins to glow with it. It doesn’t quite set on fire, but it’s enough to make Cullen reach up and rip it off her with his free hand, stomping it into the snow.

 

Merrill is there within seconds, weaving that strange barrier around Bethany - it stops the flames from doing anything other than fluttering into the air and going quickly out, but for some reason that just makes her cry all the harder.

 

Lost for what to do, they pick the now safe blanket up and wrap it back around her, incase she’s cold. Merrill assures her that the barrier means she won’t hurt herself now, and Cullen reminds her that she hasn’t hurt him in the slightest. It’s a strange kind of comfort, yelled into the wind as it is. Varric even comes up behind them and tries getting Bethany’s attention to no avail.

 

“She’s  _ gone!” _ Bethany wails, pounding on Cullen’s armour. “I can’t feel her!”

 

“Ooh, oh, da’len, I’m so sorry. Alright. We can fix this. We can.” Merrill reaches over and rubs snow from Bethany’s face with unnervingly bare hands. “It’s the barrier, keeping you from feeling her. She’s still there. We can fix it, but we’re going to need to be brave.”

 

At length, Bethany’s sobs quiet to sniffles, and she nods. “‘m brave.”

 

“You are,” Cullen agrees, because the only thing more awkward is to stand there like furniture. “Or you wouldn’t have brought us this far.”

 

“I’ll take the barrier down, but you need to stay calm,” Merrill explains, even as she weaves the spell away. “You know she’s out there, we just need to find her. She’s still moving, isn’t she?”

 

Bethany nods.

 

“Well then she’s still alive! So, there’s nothing to worry about. Besides, the Commander here used to be a Templar. If anything got really super bad with your magic, he’d just be able to get rid of it.”

 

Wide eyed, Bethany looks at him with new fascination. “You could?”

 

For a moment, just a moment, Cullen feels like he is back in the Circle - not a particular one. Any of them. Any Circle where a Knight-Commander has called him into his office to ask him a question he knows he ought to lie to. Lying was the thing that had never come easily to him - not telling the truth. In that way, he’d never been a normal Templar.

 

“I’m afraid not,” he says, because false hope is the worst lie of all. “It’s not something that should ever be done to children.” 

 

That’s true, even if it is a lie, because it’s not the reason he can’t. The reason he can’t is the same reason that his hands have been shaking since they got out into the cold - as if his tremors had seized upon an environment in which they could get away with existing. He shares a glance with Cassandra who, fortunately, stays quiet. She, of course, could step in if something truly went wrong.

 

Bethany starts to look afraid again, so he adds, solemnly, “But - I have been set on fire by much, much worse things than you. I think I can take you, Bethany Hawke.”

 

“Is that a promise?”

 

He brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Yes. Like your mother makes. Now let’s go and help her keep her own promise, little one.”

 

If Bethany’s hands cling just a little more tightly to him, or her head burrows just a little bit closer to him, Cullen doesn’t comment on it. He nods to the others, and they begin to make their way up, and up, at a pace that feels so slow as to be painful.

 

What the soldiers carrying the torches either side of their group make of this debacle, Cullen neither wants to know nor cares. No one has dared mention the child in his arms, not since they left the Chantry, not in the hours that have passed when he hasn’t let himself let go of her for a second. The Inquisition know who she is, and they do not question his desire to protect her.

 

He pulls the daughter that was meant to be his a little closer.

 

Hawke is alive. Hawke is alive, and he will not let himself believe otherwise. Not again.

 

\---

 

When Hawke spots the lights in the distance, she is up to her chest in a snow dune that she can’t seem to get past. Her limbs have forgotten function. There is nothing left in her body but that thin shred of hope that lodged in there when Roderick said the words  _ Summer pilgrimage,  _ and that alone isn’t enough to keep her moving forever.

 

_ Oh, look. Another vision. Compassion, I think this is the waystation we stopped at, the night I set fire...to that tree. When I was pregnant. Mm. I slept so badly there. I was so...so...scared. _

 

Compassion doesn’t answer. She hasn’t been there since Hawke tumbled - hurled herself, really - into the tunnels below Haven. The aura requires magic, and there’s nothing of that left in her now, save for the mark that will kill her even if she survives this.

 

Someone answers, though. Someone starts to scream her name into the wind.

 

Hawke smiles as she slumps into the snow. It sounds like Cullen. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she will dream of them again before she dies.

 

_ I should have gone back for you. I should never have let you go. _

 

The voices get louder, closer, more numerous, but Hawke can no longer hear them. The light in her chest goes out, and she falls against something hard, sharp edges that press into her collarbone, and scratchy fur that rubs against her scoured cheek.

 

“You were right - Bethany, you - you were right. No, it’s okay. I’ve got her. You go with your uncle. I won’t let her go. I promise you that, little one. I won’t let her go.”

 

One arm wraps around her back, another under her legs, and Hawke is no longer buried in the snow. She turns her face from the wind, nestling it into the fur so deeply that her forehead hits warm skin. It smells like home.

 

Voices continue to ruffle past her, but she barely notices them.

 

“Is she talking? Is she saying anything?”

 

“I need to look at her. She should be healing, I don’t know why she’s - fenhedis! She’s in lyrium shock. Varric, I need the satchel. Yes, that pocket there, on the left, there’s a small vial.”

 

Something cold, viscous and sticky pours down Hawke’s throat as gentle fingers splay at the back of her head.

 

_ I’m here, little bird. We’ve got you. _

 

Everything goes dark.

 

\---

 

She wakes up slowly, with a truly hideous taste on her tongue, and the sort of fur inside her mouth that you get when you go a week without brushing your teeth. And, Hawke quickly notices, she cannot move. She is pressed up against something hot and fleshy, which for a moment makes her think she’s having flashbacks again.

 

Around her and whoever she’s against is a blanket so tight that her limbs are pinned down. A part of Hawke starts to panic. To scream, locked in the horror of being unable to move. It seems distant, like a whisper across a chasm.

 

“Daisy. Daisy, she’s waking up.”

 

Varric’s voice vibrates against her cheek and Hawke realises, suddenly, why the person she’s pinned to doesn’t have feet where she’d expect them to be. Why they’re bumping into her shins instead.

 

“Vrrc,” she slurs, as someone starts to peel back the layers around them. With the same detachment as her inner screaming, Hawke realises that there is a thin coating of vomit over her, Varric’s chest, and the blankets that are now being taken away.

 

“Mama!”

 

There’s a scuffling that stops as quickly as it begins; then, a voice that silences the screaming in her head. “Hold on, little one. Let your aunt look after her first, remember.”

 

Merrill pulls away the last of the blankets, icy air rushing into hit Hawke’s clammy and stained skin. It’s real - too real. A sob rises from Hawke’s throat, caught in her hands, then pulled against Varric’s chest by the arms around her shoulders.

 

“Everyone’s alive, Waffles. Everyone’s alive. Including you.”

 

That isn’t true - can’t be true, Hawke saw people die in the village. But that isn’t what he means. He means that they got out. That it worked. Varric squeezes her once more against his chest, then props himself up on one arm, taking a cloth from someone to his right and cleaning the worst of the vomit away.

 

“For the record,” he says, looking up at the people Hawke hasn’t managed to focus on yet, “normally when women wake up naked in bed with me, neither of us is covered in vomit.”

 

“Thank you for that needless clarification. Herald, if you’d be so kind as to try and sit up, Merrill and I would like to look at the frankly ridiculous mess you have made of your spine.”

 

Shaking her head as if to clear it, Hawke blinks, bringing the world into focus. This makes several things apparent all at once. She is totally naked. Varric is also totally naked. There are at least six people in the tent, including her daughter, Revered Mother Giselle and the mage from Tevinter who came to warn them about the Venatori.

 

It takes her seven attempts and two coughing fits to get words out.

 

“Well,” she says, looking up at the tent ceiling. “Either I got a lot kinkier, or I’m in shock.”

 

Dorian comes into view, somehow managing to smirk and grimace all at once. “I couldn’t possibly comment on the former. Shock, you are most definitely in. Lyrium shock, in fact. You’re a healer, why don’t  _ you _ tell  _ me _ what happens if a mage downs half a dozen lyrium potions on empty reserves.”

 

_ Dehydration. That’s the one that’ll kill you.  _

 

“Whilst facing an archdemon and one of the Magisters Sidereal.”

 

_ Muscle fatigue, rapid pulse and breath... _

 

“In a blizzard!”

 

_....dizziness, vomiting… _

 

“It is truly a wonder that you are alive, Herald,” Mother Giselle says more diplomatically, politely making no comment on the fact that Hawke is now sitting up, butt naked, with two people prodding at her spine. Instead, she simply hands Hawke a waterskin.

 

Everything in Hawke wants to down the whole thing, but she’s got enough vomit down her very visible front already. She sips it carefully, taking in the room as she does, her eyes roaming automatically for one place in particular.

 

Where they immediately stop, perplexed.

 

“Cullen,” she says, slowly, “where in Andraste’s name did you get a chair?”

 

“Honestly? I’ve no idea.”

 

Seated on his lap, Bethany wriggles within her blankets and his arms. “Magic,” she pronounces solemnly. “Hi Mama.”

 

_ Oh, love. He’s still got you. _

 

To the protests of Merrill and Dorian, Hawke reaches out and smooths Bethany’s hair back under her hat. “Hi, Bethy. I’m sorry I scared you.”

 

Bethany fixes her with a level glare.  _ “I  _ was not scared,” she points out. “Everyone else was. You made Uncle Varric cry.”

 

“Bullshit!” Varric yells from the corner of the tent, now thankfully wearing more than a smirk and her lyrium-induced vomit.

 

“I saw youuuu,” Bethany sings, shifting again. The movement makes the light play off her skin oddly - like gloss on broken glass.

 

Hawke frowns, her hand halfway to being pulled back. Instead of bringing it to her lap, she rests it on Cullen’s knee, drawing his attention even as she refuses to look away from Bethany.

 

“You’re shielded,” she says. “What happened?”

 

Colour floods Bethany’s cheeks, and she curls away from Hawke, nestling her face into Cullen’s armpit. For a brief moment, both of them look as astonished by this as each other - until he gathers himself and speaks.

 

“Bethany is the reason you’re alive, Hawke.”

 

Cullen explains.

 

He doesn’t leave out a single detail, from Bethany’s eyes glowing to her horror at being shielded the first time to the fact that it was him that carried Hawke all the way back to the camp. As he speaks, Bethany lifts her head and looks up at him, listening to every word as intently as Hawke finds herself doing.

 

“When they got you back here, you were close to dead,” Dorian pronounces at the end of Cullen’s explanation, producing a pile of clean clothing and depositing it on Hawke’s lap. “In no small part due to  _ someone  _ deciding to give a lyrium shocked mage  _ even more lyrium.” _

 

Damp cloth halfway down Hawke’s back (how in the Maker’s name did she get vomit on her back?), Merrill raises an eyebrow. 

 

“You mean a lyrium shocked spirit healer,” she corrects, tiredly. “Hawke’s body is used to healing with Compassion’s help. It’s how she’s able to push so hard. If she hadn’t reactivated her aura, she would definitely be dead. You didn’t hear that, Bethany.”

 

“Mama’s fine,” Bethany states, assuredly, but Hawke is barely listening to her.

 

“Maker, Compassion. Compassion?”  _ Compassion? _

 

_ If you ever do that to me again, little bird, I will personally come out of the Fade and beat you around the head with the memory of this moment. _

 

“Hawke?”

 

“She’s...never been angry with me before,” Hawke says dazedly, mouth hanging agape. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

 

“Hawke, you’re the most compassionate person I know,” says Varric wryly, “and you’re angry all the sodding time.”

 

_ He’s right. _

 

_ Is it even possible for you to leave the Fade? _

 

_ No. I was making a point. _

 

_ I’m not sorry, you know. They’re alive. _

 

_ I know, little bird. I forgive you anyway. _

 

Hawke chuckles to herself, and accepts the robe that Mother Giselle hands her. “Of course you do.”

 

“Herald?”

 

“I’m sorry, Revered Mother, I was talking to someone else. Thank you. Is everyone alright?”

 

“Other than those that we lost,” Giselle says, with a small sigh, “and the argument occurring outside, we are as well as we may hope to be.”

 

“Argument?”

 

Beside her, Cullen shifts restlessly. “Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra. They’ve been at it for hours.”

 

Hawke frowns. “Why aren’t you with them?” she asks, the room disappearing momentarily as Merill pulls the robe over her head.

 

When things come back into view, Hawke looks up to see Cullen staring at her intently. “You’re in here,” he says, flatly, “and Bethany shouldn’t be out in the wind.”

 

Suddenly, Hawke feels every inch of her tiredness. She has to drag her legs from the bed to sit them on the floor, where Dorian starts - with no small amount of complaining - to pull miraculously dry socks onto her feet.

 

“You stayed together. Like I asked.”

 

“Of course, Mama. You gave us the most important job.”

 

Tears that should be impossible given her level of dehydration slide down Hawke’s cheeks. She opens her mouth to try and say  _ thank you, _ but no sound comes out.

 

“Bethany,” Cullen says, his eyes not leaving Hawke, “you agreed to sleep, once your mother was awake.”

 

“Here, I’ll take her.”

 

Now dressed again, Varric leans down and scoops Bethany from Cullen’s arms, leaving him sitting opposite Hawke, nothing between them but years of secrets.

 

“You need rest, as well, Herald,” Mother Giselle says gently.

 

Though she nods, for a moment Hawke ignores her. She flexes her fingers, watching Compassion’s aura play over them like light on the snow around them, and reaches out to take Cullen’s hand. 

 

She probably shouldn’t; she does it anyway.

 

His fingers tighten around hers in response.

 

She can hear the argument from outside now that the wind has died down. It’s circular, the sort of argument where people have forgotten what they’re arguing about at all, and are just trying desperately to hurt someone with their own pain.

 

“If they’re arguing about what we do next,” Hawke says, not moving her hand, “we need to be there.”

 

Giselle shakes her head. “Another heated voice will not help. Even yours. Perhaps especially yours. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand...and fall. And now, we have seen her return.”

 

The rest of her words bounce from Hawke’s ears, not without meaning, but because their meaning hurts too much to bear.

 

_ I just wanted to be a good mother to my daughter. How has all of this happened? How have I ended up here? _

 

_ That has never been all you have wanted, little bird. You wanted to save the world for her. Now, you are. _

 

“Corypheus said -” she begins, hoarsely, dropping a second hand into Cullen’s. “He said the throne of the Gods was empty.”

 

“Corypheus,” Cullen reminds her, taking hold of her hands fully and leaning forward, “is an insane darkspawn who murdered the Divine.”

 

“Faith is nothing without doubt,” murmurs Mother Giselle. “Perhaps you have an answer for my question now, Herald.”

 

Does she?

 

Does she believe, now, in a way she didn’t before she faced death and beat it? Oh, she’s come close to dying, plenty of times. There’s a scar across her abdomen from the Arishok that testifies to that. She’s gone face down in the dirt with wounds that would’ve killed a normal person more than enough times.

 

But she’s never thought, truly thought, that she was going to die. Hawke bravado isn’t famous for no reason, after all.

 

Andraste didn’t  _ personally _ send her. She’s sure of that, no matter what happened at the Conclave. The woman she saw was a spirit, most likely, who helped her - maybe it was even Compassion.

 

That doesn’t mean that this isn’t the Maker’s will, though. And if this is the Maker’s will, then maybe there’s a reason she keeps being shoved face-first into the dung heap. Maybe there’s a reason that despite all of that shit, she still wakes up every morning feeling like she’s got something to live for.

 

Hawke’s breath catches. “Shit. Oh, fucking damnit.”

 

Astonishingly, the Revered Mother smiles in reaction to her curses. “Yes,” she says, rising to her feet. “I thought so.”

 

Behind her, Hawke can hear Dorian and Merrill hatching a plan to wrestle her into a clean bed. It’s what she would be doing if she were her own patient. But - well, she’s a terrible patient. All healers are. So Hawke tightens her grip on Cullen’s hands and looks at him.

 

“Help me up,” she says, and he lifts her to her feet without question.

 

For a moment - just a moment, she leans against him and wonders if she might not just stay here, safe in his arms, forever. The world doesn’t work that way. Cullen helps her hobble out into the camp, with Mother Giselle following behind them, a hymn rising on her lips.

 

\---

 

It isn’t that she doesn’t like Solas; Hawke has just never seen him as the sort of person you socialise with. She often has technical conversations with him about the Fade, wherein he tends to provide some kind of insight she’s never heard of, but is certain sounds true. Outside of that, she mostly lets him keep to himself.

 

When he shows her the way to Skyhold, Hawke quickly re-evaluates her perception of him. Solas knows things no one else knows - that part isn’t surprising. But Solas also has a keen grasp on politics and leadership. Otherwise, he would have led the Inquisition there himself, doing something to restore his own reputation with those who thought him strange, or dangerous.

 

Instead he lets her take the credit, unblinkingly, and Hawke finds herself with a greater respect for Solas than she had before.

 

She walks into Skyhold with the help of Merrill and Dorian, just behind Bethany and Varric, and feels something empty inside herself click full again. Home. It’s a strange thing, one she hasn’t had in years, one that Bethany has never had. One look at Skyhold and Hawke knows, without a doubt, that they have it now.

 

It makes everything that happens after that worth it.

 

First, they have to find places for everyone, which is a feat in itself. They keep the soldiers and civilians both in the main courtyard whilst they scout out the building - no small task, given the size of Skyhold and how desperate everyone is for shelter. The efficiency with which Josephine assigns everyone a place is frankly terrifying, and Hawke makes a mental note to have the woman reorganise her house in Kirkwall, if she ever gets back to it.

 

Next, after an insufficient night’s sleep, the advisors spring another sodding title on her, so logically and seriously that she can’t weasel her way out of it. They hand her a sword so big she thinks it might’ve been made for a qunari, and stand smiling at her halfway up the steps.

 

She locks eyes with Cullen as she turns; his face is a picture of exhaustion, but his eyes gleam and his mouth turns upwards into a smirk that makes her legs turn to jelly. It’s a wonder that she manages to turn round and hold the sword up amidst the cheers.

 

The only thing she’s grateful for is that everyone is too exhausted to have any kind of celebration - besides, they remember all too well what happened the last time the Inquisition had a party. Instead everyone goes gratefully to their beds that night. 

 

Hawke makes a round of the infirmary, doing what she can without using magic - Dorian and Merrill have both, needlessly, told her in no uncertain terms what will happen if she tries.

 

And so sleep comes easier that night, in the quarters she didn’t ask for, with Bethany snuggled down between her and Varric. It’s a strange family, she knows - especially in Ferelden, where families are a certain way. Orlesians might think it a bit less strange, but there’s no escaping the fact that most of the Inquisition whispers rumour when Varric or Merrill make their way up to her room. She doesn’t care for herself, but - well, she’s the Inquisitor now.

 

The next day, she and Bethany come down to walk through Skyhold, and find Cassandra and Solas standing together before a makeshift table.

 

“I am simply saying,” Solas says, as Hawke approaches, “that I am concerned for his wellbeing.”

 

Cassandra turns to her. “Inquisitor. I was wondering if Cole might be a mage.”

 

Laughter is probably the ruder reaction to have, but Hawke does it anyway, shaking her head. She holds up a hand as Cassandra protests, silencing her gently. “He’s a spirit, Seeker.”

 

“How can you be certain?”

 

“I’m used to having one in my head, remember,” Hawke replies, letting her aura flare - that much she’s been allowed, at least, because otherwise she’ll never heal. “Compassion recognised him.”

 

“And you...think him safe?”

 

“Of course he is safe,” Solas snaps frustratedly. “He saved the Inquisitor’s life, did he not? He helped everyone escape from the Chantry. He has been nothing but an asset to your Inquisition.”

 

“Where is he now?” Hawke asks, before Cassandra’s infuriated expression can change. She’s certain, reasonably so, that Cassandra really is just concerned. She might not’ve forgiven Cassandra for holding Varric hostage, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t trust her.

 

A small tug on her leg draws Hawke’s attention. “Here,” Bethany says, pointing to the stairs behind them.

 

When Hawke turns, Cole is there, smiling under his hat at Bethany. “You remember me. But I tried to make you forget.”

 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Bethany points out, walking over to sit on the step next to him. “I like remembering people who’re kind to me. Otherwise I would be sad.”

 

Cole looks at her intently for a moment, frowning, before tilting his hat and head up towards Hawke. “If you want me to go, I can go.”

 

“What?” Hawke says, stepping over to him and kneeling down. “No. No one is making you go anywhere.”

 

Behind them, Cassandra shuffles, folding her arms over her chest. “If you are sure, Inquisitor, I will defer to your judgement.” There is no condemnation in her voice, even though Hawke can hear the frustration.

 

“I am. Thank you, Cassandra.”

 

The Seeker and Solas walk away, and Hawke takes a deep breath, watching as Bethany tries to grab hold of Cole’s hat.  _ Her eyes were glowing blue,  _ Cullen’s voice echoes in her mind.  _ Just like his. _

 

Bethany is not a spirit. You don’t conceive children with spirits. That much, Hawke is absolutely certain of. But she isn’t normal. She’s never been normal, and Hawke has always known it, has taught her never to be ashamed of it, no matter how terrifying it is.

 

“You didn’t reveal yourself to her,” she says quietly, looking at Cole. “She just knew you were there.”

 

Cole nods, and vanishes. No sooner is he gone to her eyes than Bethany, giggling, grabs hold of a hat that Hawke can no longer see.

 

\---

 

“I need you to do something for me,” she says later that night, when Bethany and Merrill are asleep. It’s just her and Varric now, curled up on chairs in front of the fire.

 

Varric narrows his eyes at her over his mug. “The last time you said that, Hawke, I ended up with my hands down your trousers.”

 

Her cheeks burn. “First of all, I was heavily pregnant and very frustrated and Merrill had already said no. Second of all, we agreed never to talk about it again.”

 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

 

It wasn’t. It also wasn’t just the once. That isn’t the point. Hawke brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She should really get it cut now they’re somewhere a little less mad.

 

“I want you to write a will for me,” she says. Somehow, the abrupt change of topic makes it easier to get out. “Josie can get it ratified with people at Val Royeaux. But your handwriting is neater than mine.”

 

Varric snorts. “Your chicken scratch is not handwriting, Hawke,” he remarks, then sets his ale down. “I’ll get something to write on.”

 

“Wait. Just like that? No questions?”

 

“Hey, you wanna finally wake up and be an adult like the rest of us, Waffles, I’m not going to stand in your way.” He rifles through the desk and produces parchment, a pencil, and a board that doesn’t look anywhere near as fancy as Josephine’s clipboard.

 

“I’m a parent,” Hawke points out, grumbling, “I know how to be an adult.”

 

“You parent each day at a time. Adults think further ahead. Know how old I was when I had a will?”

 

“Knowing your family, you were born with one.”

 

“Got it in one, Hawke,” Varric grins, then settles in. “Anyway, yours’ll be a lot shorter than mine. I already own everything you had in Kirkwall.”

 

Hawke’s mouth drops open. “You...you do?”

 

“What, you think I was going to let some upstart magistrate muscle in on your house? Shit, Hawke, I’ve been renting that thing to Aveline and Donnic for two years now.”

 

“Two years ago is when you started sending Merrill and I ‘care packages’,” Hawke points out, glaring at him. “You could’ve said it was my money already. I felt like shit for taking your charity.”

 

“Yeah, well, I take the competition for best uncle very seriously. So. I’m guessing you want to leave all your money and stuff to Goldie.”

 

Hawke nods.

 

“Well that’s simple,” Varric says, making a note. “Course, you need to appoint a proper guardian before you can do that - Val Royeaux doesn’t give a shit about the rest of us, legally. Which you already know. Because that’s why you’re making a will now.”

 

She looks away from him. “I just had a near-death experience, Varric, you don’t think that’s the time to start considering the future?”

 

“You didn’t think for one second that you were going to die.” Something changes in Varric’s voice; it becomes harsher, more venomous. She looks up at him, and his face creases in pain. “Otherwise you would never have gone. It’s not that. Don’t lie to me, Hawke, not now. Not about her.”

 

Abruptly, Hawke remembers the frantic rhythm of Varric’s fists pounding on the door of the Chantry, and the muffled sound of his screams.

 

“I’m sorry, Varric,” she whispers, slipping down from her chair to kneel in front of his. She laces her fingers together and rests them over his knee, her head leaning on top of it.

 

“Don’t,” he chokes out, left hand gripping into her hair, “do it again.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“So are you naming both of them, or just one of them? Because you know they’re both likely to get themselves killed with what they’re like, let alone the rest of us that you drag into things. You’d better pick more than one person.”

 

The question slams into her heart far harder than his pain. Hawke is pretty sure she deserves it. “Cullen first,” she says, not trusting her voice with more than a whisper. “Then you. Then Merrill. N-no one else.”

 

“You sure about him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He’s got a lot going on without a kid in his life, Hawke.”

 

“So have I. I’m sure, Varric.”

 

All Hawke hears for a long moment is the scratch of Varric’s pencil, then the click of the writing board falling against the table. He shifts, pressing his mug into her hands, then slides down to sit next to her as she downs more whiskey than is probably advisable.

 

“For the record, Hawke, your love life is more fucked up than mine, and I’m in love with a married woman who frequently tries to have me assassinated.”

 

She grins, lopsidedly, and hugs him. “Yeah,” she sighs, “I know.”

 

“Oh, just one thing. You want this thing ratified when it’s done? Everyone involved has to countersign it first.”

 

_ Fuck. _

 

\---

 

With Skyhold established, information comes flying in. Hawke finds herself far more aware of the breadth of the Inquisition’s network than she was before, as if expanding out of a single Chantry and a few tents has served to magnify what was already there. Not to mention that more and more people come to help every day - walking straight up to the gates, sending letters, declaring alliances.

 

This, of course, brings more Things the Inquisitor Needs to Look At.

 

The first week there is just reading reports. Digesting. Working out what the fuck is going on in the world. The resting does her good, but it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the state of - well, everything. Desperate to escape the paperwork, she makes a short trip to the Storm Coast, to pick up the mercenary band that she’d never bothered to get when they were in Haven.

 

“Ha!” their leader crows, clapping her on the back with a hand the size of her head. “So this is the runt who killed the Arishok in Kirkwall.”

 

Until the Iron Bull’s Chargers start toasting her with their hastily opened casks, Hawke isn’t certain whether or not this is a compliment. She travels back with them, tending their wounds and learning several songs that she’s definitely going to make sure aren’t sung in front of Bethany.

 

On the sixth day in Skyhold, they get a report that some scouts are missing in the marshes - Hawke has Varric, Sera and Bull ready to ride within an hour. No one is surprised to find that the Fallow Mire is wet, smells like a nug’s asshole, and full of sodding demons. Fortunately, it also contains a room full of very grateful scouts.

 

By the second week, the rhythm they’ve settled into is almost comfortable. Buildings are erected and refurbished within Skyhold, scouts are sent to new regions of Ferelden and Orlais both, red lyrium deposits are destroyed, Venatori slain, keeps claimed, Templar defectors taken care of, and Hawke manages - with a good dose of stubbornness and abuse of power - to ensure she spends at least one night in three with her daughter.

 

Sometimes, she feels guilty for how comfortable the end of the world is.

 

\---

 

At the start of their fifth week in Skyhold, Hawke stands on the battlements for two full minutes before she knocks on Cullen’s door.

 

“Come in.”

 

Damnit. She has not caught him on a good day. Hawke pauses, the rolled up parchment creasing in her grip, before she mentally kicks herself and opens the door. It’s Cullen. She spent  _ years _ with him. She can handle five bloody minutes.

 

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, closing the door behind her. “That looks like some really important pacing you’re doing.”

 

He stops as soon as she speaks, looking up in surprise. “Hawke. I thought - nevermind. What can I do for you?”

 

Closer, it’s clear that Cullen looks like absolute shit. His skin is sallow, his hair is greasy - she didn’t even think that was possible on him - and the hands he leans on the desk are trembling. This isn’t tiredness; something is wrong.

 

“Sit down,” she says, placing the will on his desk and flaring her aura. “Now, Cullen.”

 

“There’s really no need for -”

 

“I said sit. Down.”

 

She’s a fraction of Cullen’s size, but he’s off balance enough that when she shoves him back towards the chair, he falls into it without difficulty. That or he’s humouring her. He looks at her nervously, warily, and not a little angrily.

 

“I have my own healer, you know.”

 

Ignoring him, Hawke touches her fingers to his temples, his throat, his wrist - sending her aura to envelop him and show her every problem, every niggle, every itch. He’s not sleeping enough, not eating enough, he’s slightly dehydrated. But then, everyone in Skyhold is at least two of those things. There’s an old wound she recognises on his knee that’s still playing up. There’s -

 

The answer hits her like a hammer.

 

She slumps, half leaning and half sitting, against the table. Her aura dampens to its normal state like an ephemeral memory. In front of her, Cullen doesn’t move - his hands rest on the arms of the chair, and he eyes her with the same wary anger as before.

 

It’s not a question of why. She doesn’t have to ask why. No one who spent half a day in Kirkwall in the past decade would have to ask why. How many times has she wished not to have magic? For all that it gives her?

 

“How long?” she asks, when she trusts herself to speak.

 

Bitterly, resentfully, Cullen tells her about the lyrium - not just how long, but everything. He’s done it carefully, thank Andraste, rather than going completely cold turkey - that could’ve killed him, with how powerful he was before. Her mind starts racing with thoughts about how to fix it, how to make it easier, what things they can do to keep him strong enough to endure the withdrawal.

 

Over all that, a feeling washes. Sadness. Regret.

 

“I should have been there with you,” she whispers, not looking at him. “I should have helped.”

 

Hoarsely, Cullen laughs. “I suppose that makes us even.”

 

Hawke closes her eyes. “I should have come back.”

 

“Should,” he says, not moving, “will bury us both, Marian.”

 

_ I have always liked him,  _ Compassion sighs.

 

“Then we won’t let it.” Turning, Hawke reaches behind her and picks the rolled parchment up, holding it out to him. “I want you to sign this.”

 

The paper trembles in his fingers as he takes it, pulling the binding ribbon away and unfurling it before him. It’s only one page - that’s the advantage to a will that leaves everything to one person and puts that one person in the care of another. At the bottom, her signature lies, next to Varric’s and Merrill’s - and one last, empty space.

 

“But...she’s not my daughter,” he says, voice cracking.

 

Hawke slides from the table and kneels on the floor in front of him, forcing herself into his dipped field of view. “If you want to be like that, she’s not Varric’s, either. Definitely not Merrill’s, or Carver’s. But  _ all _ of them are parents to her. All of them. Do you know why?”

 

He doesn’t say anything; he stares at the trembling paper.

 

“Because they love Bethany, and they would do anything to protect her, no matter what.” Reaching out, Hawke rests her hand on his, pulling the paper down to look into his eyes. “You took her for me with a dragon roaring above us, Cullen, and you didn’t let her go.”

 

The last word comes out as little more than a croak - she’s crying now, soundlessly, tears streaming down her cheeks and falling from her jaw like raindrops. Hawke makes no move to catch them, and neither does he. They tumble to make dark spots against her scarf.

 

“What happens,” he says, “if I’m - if I can’t -”

 

“If you’re sick, or dead, it passes to the next person. You trust Cassandra to tell you if you can’t lead my army? You can trust her to tell you if you can’t protect our daughter. No matter what, if anything ever happened to me, you wouldn’t be alone with her. Bethany has an army of people who love her just as much as I do. None of them will ever let her go, either.”

 

Cullen leans over her and smooths the paper out on the desk. Stumbling, Hawke gets to her feet so that he can pick up the quill from beside her, and falls silent as his name flows shakily beneath his fingers.

 

They watch the ink dry together, whilst Hawke forces him to drink an entire tankard of water - then she leaves without either of them saying anything more.

 

\---

 

A little over two months in, a familiar but no longer sticky bird delivers a new letter from Stroud.

 

It takes all of Hawke’s willpower not to immediately march into Crestwood. When she does, she finds a rift in a lake of bodies, a man trying to hide his crimes, and a dragon that makes Iron Bull dance for joy shortly before they kill it.

 

“A Northern Hunter, Hawke!” he cries, lifting her and spinning her in the air, dragon blood flying from them both. “I’ve never seen one! Oh, Crem will hate to have missed this.”

 

One drained lake, several hundred zombies, a few rifts and a stern talking to Crestwood’s mayor later, Hawke makes it through the wet hills to the cave Stroud marked in his letter. It’s grim, full of glowing mushrooms and gleaming stalactites, which is nothing compared to what she finds at the end of the tunnel.

 

“Who’s there?” a Ferelden-accented voice demands. “Show yourself!”

 

Hawke drops her staff, sending it clattering loudly against the ground. “Carver?” she gasps, in the echoes of the reverberations.

 

Three steps has her out of the tunnel and into the cave itself, and half a dozen strides from her brother sends him crashing against her. His chainmail leaves bruises on her and Hawke doesn’t care, because he is alive, he is alive and - Maker, he looks like shit, but he’s alive. She squeezes him tight enough to pop.

 

“Hey Junior,” Varric grins with not a hint of surprise. “Glad you made it. Don’t look at me like that, Hawke, if I told you  _ how  _ I managed everything then it wouldn’t seem like magic.”

 

Hawke turns, kisses Varric soundly on the lips, and grabs an alarmed Carver’s hands. “You’re okay? I want to know everything.”

 

“You will, my friend,” says a second voice, as Stroud steps out from the shadows. “But you will not be so joyous to hear it, I think.”

 

She isn’t.

 

Not that it’s a surprise to hear that Corypheus is immortal - she did  _ kill him,  _ after all. Clearly, corporeal death is just an inconvenience for him. The Calling, the false Calling, that’s what makes her stomach turn.

 

Carver had used the Calling as a weapon against her, once, when they’d been arguing - it was just after they’d killed Corypheus, before he’d gone back to the Wardens.  _ He will leave you, _ he’d yelled.  _ He will go and die alone in the Deep Roads and you will have nothing left. _

 

She’d punched him in the face. It had hurt her more than him.

 

Then Stroud tells her about the rituals, and Hawke quickly forgets about the song that will take away the people she loves most. She forgets about anything at all, except the last thing Stroud says to her before lightning arcs through the cavern.

 

“The Warden-Commander isn’t acting alone. Anders is with her.”

 

She doesn’t mean the lightning; it breaks through Compassion’s aura and surges out regardless, making the others duck down in alarm. It surges out in a bolt, bouncing off the ground and taking out several rock formations with its ricochet.

 

_ Shit. Shit. Breathe, Hawke, breathe. _

 

“Well,” Carver says, amidst the sound of her panting breaths and Sera’s swearing, “I suppose it was too much to hope you’d gotten over him by now.”

 

“You’d think with the amount she’s been dropped on her head it would’ve been beaten out of her,” sighs Varric, dusting off his coat, “but no. You alright there, Waffles?”

 

“Why  _ do _ you call her Waffles, anyway?” Iron Bull asks with the casualness of someone who knows exactly how to defuse a situation.

 

“The day I met Hawke, she let a pickpocket keep her purse out of pity. The next day, I watched her paralyse a Templar so I could shoot him in the nads.”

 

Hawke manages to get control of her breathing, Stroud’s hand on her shoulder, as Bull replies, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

 

Varric grins. “Hawke is soft, fluffy, and delicious both sweet and savoury.”

 

“And here I thought it was just because she never stops talking,” Carver remarks, turning to eye her judgmentally. “Still feel like killing us?”

 

“I always feel like killing you,” Hawke grumbles, sitting down and leaning her back against the wall. “Sisterly privilege.”

 

They stay the night there with Stroud and Carver, plotting how to follow the Wardens’ trail. Sometimes, for a little while, Hawke even manages to forget the words  _ Anders _ and  _ blood magic _ amidst the long-lost sound of her brother’s laughter.

 

\---

 

Maybe it’s something about getting rid of all the bad news at once, and maybe it’s just masochism, but when Hawke gets back to Skyhold she picks Bethany up and proclaims that they’re going on an adventure.

 

“An adventure?”

 

“Yes, a very serious one. You have magic, Bethy, special magic, and it’s about time we worked out what kind.”

 

“I don’t like my magic, Mama.”

 

“You do,” Hawke corrects, stepping out of the main building and onto the steps. “It saved my life, didn’t it?”

 

Solemnly, Bethany nods. “True.”

 

“But we don’t understand what it is. So we are going to find someone who does - or, rather, you’re going to. Want to go Cole hunting?”

 

Bethany’s face lights up with a grin, and she wriggles until Hawke puts her down, stepping unnervingly up to the edge of the stonework and looking out over their demesne. “Onwards!” she proclaims when the sight is lacking, and Hawke lets herself be led on a merry tour of Skyhold.

 

Her daughter, Hawke discovers, is both chaotic and meticulous. There isn’t an inch of Skyhold they don’t cover, which includes the baths - awkward - and Cullen’s office - even more awkward, since he’s in the middle of a meeting with Barris and Harding. They just do it in a bizarre order that makes absolutely no logical sense. After a while they even pick up an entourage, with Iron Bull lifting Bethany high so she can see as far as possible, and Sera offering to set off an explosion to see if Cole will come running to help.

 

It takes Hawke a while to shake them, eventually managing it by suggesting they go and check the Chantry - or at least what passes for one, in Skyhold. Bethany nods, back on the ground, and leads her into the small courtyard by the hand.

 

“Good morning, Revered Mother,” Hawke says with a smile, as they pass the almost-grown royal elfroot plant and a few squabbling scouts. Giselle smiles at them and inclines her head, but makes no move to follow them into the small shrine.

 

Where, grinning, is a young man with a ridiculous hat. “That was fun,” he admits, rubbing his foot against the ground. “What do I win?”

 

“Me,” Bethany pronounces fondly, walking over and throwing her arms around his leg. “And Mama.”

 

“We were hoping you could help us, Cole.”

 

“Fear carried round in your hands, your heart, like a basket of wishes whispered into the silence. I know.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Hawke walks over to the sculpture of Andraste and sits, crossing her legs. Bethany settles herself next to Cole, against the wall opposite, and Hawke falls silent as the spirit looks down at her daughter.

 

She hasn’t missed the things that Cole has been doing. It doesn’t take a genius to trace the logic back - and she’s spent enough time with Compassion to know that sometimes, the kindest thing to do is the most unexpected. So, she leans into that trust, and falls quiet until he speaks.

 

“Bethany,” Cole begins, stroking her hair, “have you met your father?” When she shakes her head, he continues, “I think he was a very powerful mage.”

 

“Yes. He had a spirit like Mama’s, too.”

 

“Not quite like mine,” admits Hawke. “No two spirits are the same, even when they’re the same kind. My Compassion isn’t the same as another.”

 

“Doors ever ajar, open for hope, wide for healing, healing them and us too, I will reach into the world beyond if it means that I am not alone. Your parents are very powerful, Bethany. So are you.”

 

To Hawke’s astonishment, Bethany blushes - an expression confusing both because embarrassment is strange on a nearly four-year-old child, and because it’s one she’s never seen on Bethany before.

 

“Doors open to other doors,” Cole says, turning his attention to Hawke. “You made her one.”

 

“A...door?”

 

“Yes. Open all the time, she doesn’t know how to close, here and there, home and away, streaming one into the other - beacon, conduit, flame.” Cole frowns and ducks his head. “Then you brought her to a place where the world opened too.”

 

Closing her eyes, Hawke brings her hands together in her lap, unconsciously winding her sister’s handkerchief around it as she digests Cole’s soft patter. “So Bethany is a mage,” she says, slowly, “more open to the Fade, because we were. And worse, because of the Breach.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How much more?”

 

Cole looks down at Bethany, and strokes her head again - when his hand passes down to her spine, she crumples, falling asleep at his side. It would be alarming if Hawke hadn’t seen Merrill do it to her in the worst times, before they’d learned how to shield her from her magic.

 

“Keep a dam closed for too long and it’ll break when you open it, shattering, a torrent of tidal talent, you can never hold her back or she’ll be the geyser that crests the stone. The more the water flows, the more it picks up and carries, the more you have to sift. I’m sorry, Hawke.”

 

“I - I don’t -”

 

“Listen,” Cole urges, reaching out to take her hand. Compassion flares around her as if called for the first time in weeks, even though she’s been there ever since Hawke woke that morning. Cole has never touched her before, Hawke notices.

 

_ Her magic is so powerful that it will draw much more attention, little bird. All the moreso because she has so strong a connection to the Fade. She is like a dreamer, but one who touches the Fade in waking. But if you do not help her control it, it will consume her. _

 

The words echo in Hawke’s mind, as if they had been spoken aloud there, and left to reverberate off every terrible thing that has ever happened to her because of her magic. To set the memory of every demon vibrating.

 

With Cole’s hand still in hers, Hawke looks up at the shrine beside them.

 

“Help me,” she whispers, and she isn’t sure whether her words are for Cole, for Compassion, or for Andraste Herself.

 

Quietly, Cole takes his hat off and puts it next to him. “I came from a Circle,” he says hesitantly. “The Templars, they used to say things, when they were scared. The same words, over and over. Prayers made of prayers.”

 

Hawke’s hand shakes in his. “Do you remember any?”

 

Cole nods. “Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever.”

 

The words draw Hawke back - not to the Chantry in Haven, nor, thank the Maker, the one in Kirkwall. She remembers the Lothering Chantry, which they went to only rarely. She remembers sitting there with her father on one side and the twins on the other, listening to the Revered Mother’s hard voice.

 

“But the one who repents,” Hawke whispers, taking over with eyes closed, “who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and -”

 

Something catches in her throat; Cole places Bethany, still sleeping, into her arms.

 

“In the Maker’s law and Creations - she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.” Cole’s voice echoes through the room, soft enough to cut. “The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next.”

 

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes towards flame, she should see fire and go towards Light. The - the Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

 

\---

 

The world, Hawke has decided, is laughing at her.

 

It must be, because it continues, over and over again, to throw the worst case scenario at her and see what she does with it. Impossible events with impossible odds, no matter what. No matter how many people she saves or doesn’t. How much good she does or evil she causes. The worst thing happens, and it happens repeatedly, one thing after another.

 

Which is why she isn’t surprised that Cullen is the one that finds her sobbing in a cordoned off, broken down corner of Skyhold.

 

He doesn’t say anything. If it were Varric, he would have quipped about how much of a mess she was making of her face. If it were Merrill, she would have cooed and murmured at her in soft, musical elvhen.

 

But it’s Cullen. So instead, he just sits down next to her on the broken remains of a mouldy bed, and rests his hands in his lap. She feels his eyes flicker onto her, though his head barely turns in her direction.

 

The first few sounds that come out of her mouth are sobs. Hawke catches them in her hands, but it doesn’t stop them from echoing through the dilapidated room. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He sits there as she tries to talk, over and over, but can do nothing but cry. His presence has shaken the echo of Cole’s words from her mind, but the wrenching in her heart hasn’t gone away.

 

“I wish she was yours,” she whispers at last, the truth tearing from her like a murmured scream. “I wish she was yours, Cullen.”

 

Still, Cullen doesn’t say anything, though Hawke can see his shoulders shaking, his hands shaking, as the effort of speaking it makes her start crying all over again. There are no tears in his eyes or on his cheeks. Cullen becomes a mess far more quietly. Hawke’s throat is hoarse now, her chest tight, her sides aching from the effort of it. The bags under her eyes have long since succumbed to the redness of her rubbing at them.

 

“Fuck, how did I come out such a terrible person? Everything, every little sodding thing I try to do goes wrong. I break things. I break everything. And no one will let me just  _ leave  _ and  _ go home. _ ”

 

He only even moves when her litany of self-hatred peters out, when she’s exhausted even that, and her sobs are nothing more than sniffles.

 

Then, with slow, deliberate care, Cullen takes Bethany’s red handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes her face with it. His own expression is creased; he does not spare her the image of his pain, this time.

 

Silently, he trails his fingers down the edge of her face, over the baby-soft hairs that wisp in front of her ear - and he kisses her. Softly, delicately, like she is made of glass and all he can do without shattering her is just clasp warmth against her skin. Hawke’s eyes flutter closed, her heart skips, but before she can reach for him he is gone.

 

The door makes more noise as it closes than he did the entire time he was there.

 

Hawke touches shaking fingers to her lips, and wonders, not for the first time, if any of this is real. She wonders, too, whether she hopes for truth or lies.

 

\---

 

The others convince her to stay in Skyhold for a few days, but soon Hawke’s fears become too great to rest longer. Leaving behind the warmth of the tavern, where Merrill has been teaching Marythen her clan’s songs and Crem and Dorian have been trying to teach Bethany Tevintan swearing, she rides out towards the Western Approach.

 

It’s a long journey, and she tries - despite her nerves - not to rush everyone. They’ve only bought two horses apiece, and if she pushes them too far then they’ll get stuck for a week’s recovery. There’s no getting new horses round here. Not for the first time, Hawke finds herself wishing that she could Fade step an entire group of people.

 

They’ve only spent half a day in the Approach before Hawke remembers that she most definitely does not like places with no shade, no rain, and nothing but sand and sandstone as far as the eye can see. Not even the collection of new herbs they gather for Skyhold’s infirmary is enough to justify the searing, almost acidic heat.

 

The one time they came here before, hunting for Cassandra’s deserters and Dorian’s remaining Venatori, they’d been forced through ancient ruins protected by poisonous gas clouds. This, at least, means the Inquisition has enough of a presence there that it doesn’t take long to find their target.

 

They rest for a single, grim night at Griffon Wing Keep before they risk facing the Wardens. Leaving the horses behind, Hawke is left with an hour long walk in which to think about what - and who - she’s going to find at the end of it.

 

It isn’t Anders. Not in person. In many ways, that’s worse.

 

“Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall,” crows the Magister at the crest of the ruins, when they stumble up too damn late to save a Warden from being sacrificed. “I’ve heard so much about you from a dear new friend of mine. I believe you know him.”

 

Afterwards, Hawke is left wondering if Erimond escapes because of her. Because the moment the Magister smiles at her, like a friend making casual conversation, and remarks, “My master is quite fond of his...willingness.” - then the world is red. She screams and hurls herself at the Wardens, or the demons that they were, and when it’s over there is no sign of Erimond.

 

“Chuckles. Hey.  _ Hawke. _ They’re gone. So’s Erimond. We’ve gotta get back to the Keep. Come on, now.”

 

As they walk back, Hawke stares at the blood on her clothes, remembering a time that it belonged to a different Warden entirely. The memory seeps in, like darkness oozing in to stain the edge of vision.

 

They’re in Griffon Wing Keep for thirty minutes before she forces them to leave for Skyhold.

 

The ride is hard, but Hawke barely notices, pushing everyone onwards. She thrusts her horse into Harrit’s care when she puts her feet on Skyhold’s ground and snaps instructions at anyone who can hear her, summoning the council to the war room.

 

That’s when the panic and fear stop helping.

 

She gets through most of what Erimond said without breaking, until she reaches the last thing he said before disappearing, the final taunt, the words that have been tearing at her heart like brambles since they reached her ears.

 

“Inquisitor,” Josephine says, shifting her clipboard and placing her hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “Hawke. Perhaps you should rest.”

 

_ You mean perhaps I should stop showing the world what a mess I am. _

 

“No, no, I have to - please, I have to get this out.”

 

“I imagine so,” Leliana says drily, “or you would not have risked travelling back at such speed.”

 

The breath leaves Hawke in a rush, hot and angry. She inhales calm back in, or tries to, leaning heavily upon the war table. Next to her, Cullen has fallen silent.

 

“There are two people leading the Wardens’ rituals, apart from Erimond,” Hawke says, staring at the marker on the table that represents Adamant Fortress. She does not need Leliana’s help. She can do this. “Warden-Commander Clarel, and -”

 

“Anders,” Cullen says, little more than a breath.

 

Across from them, Cassandra holds her hand to her mouth. “Inquisitor, I am truly sorry.”

 

“It’s not him,” Hawke says at once, certain without certainty. “When we went to Corypheus’s prison - he’s...he’s susceptible to possession. Because of - it’s easier to - Corypheus -”

 

It feels like the walls are closing in, and all she can remember is the sensation of fire leaping up around her, searing her skin, his face the other side of the flames. Corypheus hadn’t bothered to control Anders’s expression - he’d let him have that, so it was horror that had screamed at her as he’d tried to burn her alive.

 

All she can see is Carver, swearing, charging forward and sending his sword through Anders’s chest - lifting him up like the Arishok did to her, and letting him slump motionless off the blade.

 

“Hawke.  _ Marian. _ ”

 

Something shakes her, and the room comes back into focus -  _ Cullen _ comes back into focus, his hands clasped on either side of her face, steadying her. He catches her as her knees give out, pulling her against him.

 

“We will resume this meeting at a later time,” he says flatly, brokering no argument - it comes anyway, as he shifts his arm under hers to hold her up. There is no sound but his voice and the rush of flame and Anders laughing. “I said later, Leliana.”

 

They’re halfway to her rooms before Hawke realises that Josephine has stormed ahead of them, taking point on distracting the visiting dignitaries in the great hall. A few of them notice the Inquisitor being half-dragged to her rooms nonetheless, but then Cassandra is alongside Josephine, launching into an explanation about the dangers of extreme dehydration that bores the guests into giving up on caring.

 

The stairs prove to be too much for her - Cullen swings her over his shoulder with a grunt and carries her the rest of the way, kicking the bedroom door closed behind him. He steadies her as he places her down, then cups her face in his hands again.

 

“You’re having flashbacks?”

 

She nods, mutely, holding onto whatever she can grab in his clothing to keep herself upright.

 

“Right,” he says, and Hawke realises distantly that he hasn’t snapped out of his Commander voice. “What does it feel like?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Whatever you’re remembering, Marian, what does it feel like?”

 

“Like...burning.”

 

If Cullen makes the link between fire and Anders, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lifts his hands and grabs hold of her lapels. “I’m going to take your clothes off now.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Not like - Maker’s breath, what do you think - you are caked in sand. Did you not bathe on the entire journey home? Don’t answer that. Water. It feels different to the thing you’re remembering.” 

 

He lifts Hawke’s coat gently, one last request for consent, and she lets him slip it over her shoulders, steadying herself on the bedpost for support as he begins unwinding her scarf.

 

“Does...that work?”

 

Cullen pauses, fingers on the buttons of her tunic. “It works for me,” he says softly, and takes the rest of Hawke’s clothes off whilst she remembers the feeling of Anders’s blood sticky on her hands, stringy between her fingers.

 

She slumps down onto the floor, surrounded by her clothes, whilst Cullen moves the bath in front of the fire. Someone at some point must fill it - perhaps it’s him, or perhaps he gets help. Hawke loses the reality of it to the sound of Anders sobbing apologies at her, cradling her against his still-bloody body.

 

“Come on,” Cullen murmurs in her ear, scooping her up off the floor - his chest is bare now, another thing she’s missed, and for a moment it’s impossible to ignore the blood that is surely all over him, the wound gaping in his chest.

 

“No, no no no -”

 

He shushes her with a thumb brushed over her lips, fingers tilting her chin up to look at his face. “I’ve got you,” Cullen says, “I’m real.”

 

The water is cool, but not cold.

 

It doesn’t banish the memory instantly. It doesn’t make her forget the black that seeped into Anders’s eyes, that were always warm even when they were glowing. It doesn’t silence the litany of  _ sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you, not you. _

 

But it takes the sand away. It gets rid of the dirt and dust from the journey she made too fast, propelled by fear and the memories she wouldn’t let break through until she was safe. There aren’t many places that make her feel safe anymore, Hawke realises. Only people. But Skyhold - Skyhold is different.

 

Cullen hums songs she recognises from childhood as he washes the grime out of her hair, his hands as soft as the bath against her back is hard. Little by little by little, he pulls the fire away from her skin.

 

She falls asleep without memories, his arms wrapped around her waist and his nose buried in her neck.

 

\---

 

“Leliana’s scouts have reported a considerable force,” Cullen says, shaking his head. “We cannot risk it. I can have everyone ready to leave in three days.”

 

“Three days?” Josephine asks, perplexed.

 

“Dagna is close to finishing a new set of runes for the troops. I will not take them against demons unprepared.”

 

“Inquisitor?”

 

Hawke lifts her head belatedly to find Cassandra looking at her expectantly. “Three days is fine,” she says, though it doesn’t feel that way. “There’s no point in going at all if we aren’t going to succeed.”

 

Every second is that tense, but for the most part the flashbacks are gone - Hawke takes to carrying a flask of water round with her and, when they become bad, tips the entire thing up over her head. It earns her a few strange looks from the people around her, but it’s worth it. They’d be looking at her more oddly if she was sobbing.

 

Bethany is on her best behaviour. She knows; Hawke does her best to hide how overwhelmed she feels, but Bethany catches her pacing once or twice, and everyone’s noticed she isn’t sleeping. The problem is, Bethany’s gentle demeanor proves to be at odds with her magic. By the time they’re into the second day, Merrill has taken to maintaining Bethany’s barrier almost constantly.

 

Soothing her worst fear, Cole assures Hawke that it isn’t proximity to the mark making Bethany worse - the thought has plagued her more than once since the day in the shrine to Andraste. But that doesn’t offer a solution.

 

“Sometimes,” Merrill admits quietly, wringing her hands together, “I think she’s starting to break through the barrier.”

 

_ Shit _ .

 

Swallowing her fear, Hawke asks Cole to stay and watch over Bethany - Adamant will be hard enough without worrying about the people she’s leaving behind. Even still, it’s agonising to step aside from the gathered army and draw Bethany into her arms, Merrill’s long limbs wrapping around them. Cole’s cool hand ghosts gently across her hair, and Hawke manages - through a shuddering breath - not to cry.

 

She hops onto her horse alongside Cullen and Cassandra and does not let herself look back.

 

\---

 

Through all of the long journey, through every second of battle and every Warden they fail to save, Hawke finds herself looking into every face fearing the worst. It doesn’t happen there, in the fights where she tries everything to save the people who saved her brother.

 

It happens when they clatter up the stairs to the stairs, to the ritual circle where the Wardens are gathered. A woman that must be Clarel stands there, with the Magister at her left. On her right…

 

On her right, Hawke’s heart breaks.

 

She remembers what Anders looks like when Justice is at the front; glowing brightly, more blue than her Compassion’s blue-white. She remembers, too, what that looks like when it isn’t either of them. When it’s Corypheus. Those same black veins run through the light of the spirit’s power now, twisted and tainted.

 

Varric’s hand clasps onto her shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Stroud murmurs, his voice all but lost to the wind.

 

“Are you ready, Jana?” the Warden-Commander asks a terrified looking elf, as Anders moves behind her with a blade drawn.

 

_ No, please, don’t - _

 

The blood spills out into the air, hovering unnaturally, and Hawke hears a hideous scream. It takes her a moment to realise the scream is hers, that Varric and Cassandra have both grabbed her from either side now, holding her back.

 

“Stop them!” the Magister shouts. “We must complete the ritual!”

 

Behind him, Anders tilts his head to the side, expressionless and inhuman, the bloody knife still in his hand.

 

“Let go of me,” Hawke says. “Varric, I have to. Let go.”

 

She holds a hand up to the forces behind her and steps forward, placing herself between them and the Wardens who have lined up in front of her. The wound in her chest aches.  _ I wish you were here, Cullen, and not with the army. But I’m glad you’re not here. Maker, I’m glad you’re not here. _

 

With years of practice, Hawke buries her sobs.

 

“Warden-Commander Clarel!” Hawke yells, pointing her staff at the Magister. “If you complete the ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants.”

 

Erimond steps forward, but it isn’t him that replies - it’s a voice, all-too-familiar, that comes both in sound and in a shudder through the Veil itself.

 

“The cause of the Grey Wardens is just. It shall not be denied.”

 

“But the cause of Corypheus is not!” shouts Stroud; he, unlike Hawke, is looking straight at Clarel.

 

“Corypheus?” Clarel whispers, aghast. “But he’s dead.”

 

“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel,” Erimond says, even as Stroud yells again, urging her to believe that Corypheus is turning the Wardens into his army.

 

_ Compassion,  _ Hawke thinks, eyes locked with Anders’s,  _ is there anything we can do for him? _

 

_ I do not know, little bird. Justice is, and has always been, far more powerful than I. _

 

_ If I dispel the magic around him - will it unbind him from Corypheus? _

 

_ Perhaps. But if it fails, then the Wardens will kill you. _

 

Hawke grits her teeth - and casts. Anders is worth the risk. He has always been worth the risk, and no amount of trying to change herself and the world will deny that. They are looking at Stroud now, the rest of them, and Erimond - only Anders is looking at her, and his reaction is too slow to do anything about her spell, her  _ dis _ pel, which has gotten stronger every month that Bethany has been alive.

 

When Anders screams, everyone turns.

 

“No!” Clarel yells, reaching for Anders as he stumbles, the light in his eyes flickering. “Bring it through!”

 

The Wardens around the rift begin moving, but Hawke doesn’t give them the chance to take control - she cracks her staff against the ground and throws out a blast of spirit energy, sending it slamming into Erimond’s side.

 

He stumbles, but does not fall, catching most of the blast on his armour. As the others around her raise their weapons and charge, Erimond proclaims, “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you.”

 

The dragon’s roar shakes dust from the ramparts; their attack stumbles in horror.

 

But so do Clarel and Anders. They back away from Erimond, who lifts his head triumphantly, unaware of their movements. As one, they snarl and hurl blasts of energy - one lightning, one fire - to slam into the Magister’s back.

 

“I’ve got an idea!” Anders calls to Clarel, his voice wholly, blissfully his own. “You’re not going to like it.”

 

Clarel looks down at the writhing Magister. “It will be better than this.”

 

“Clarel...wait…”

 

At the Warden-Commander’s nod, Anders draws his arm back and sends a spirit bolt flying up, up - and straight into the archdemon.

 

“Blondie,” Varric groans, lifting Bianca to his shoulder, “you absolute fucking idiot.”

 

“Run!” Anders yells, and he and Clarel scatter to the battlements as lyrium spit crashes down before them, searing the ground with its noxious stench.

 

Hawke and the others take two steps before the pride demon tears its way out of the rift, blocking their way. Chaos descends. It isn’t a long battle - anger sends Hawke’s left hand up into the sky, and she splits the way to the Veil open, tearing it and the pride demon asunder. Half of the Wardens draw their weapons on the Inquisition, the other half turning to fight the demons that were once their brethren, and as soon as there’s a moment Hawke breaks free of them.

 

“Stroud! Stay here, help the Wardens you can. The rest of you, with me. Now!”

 

She doesn’t have to tell them - they’re already charging up the stairs with her.

 

It feels like her bones shake every time the archdemon roars. They throw aside shades and rage and despair and more of the dragon’s breath and staircase after staircase - it should be exhausting her, but Hawke barely notices it, adrenaline and fear warring to keep her on her feet.

 

By the time they reach the top, Anders and Clarel have surrounded Erimond, who must have followed them in the chaos - they send him stumbling to the ground again, wreathed in flame and the crumbling earth of Clarel’s veilstrike.

 

“You have destroyed the Grey Wardens!” Clarel snaps, sending Erimond’s body skidding down the stones towards Hawke as he taunts her in response.

 

He groans, rolling on the ground, clutching his wounds. Hawke does not pity him. “You could have served a new God!”

 

“I will never serve the Blight,” states Clarel with certainty, seconds before the archdemon leaps down and grabs her in its jaws.

 

Behind it, Anders stumbles, grasping onto the battlements. Hawke loses sight of him in the dust, only spotting him again - whole, alive - when Clarel’s body clatters to the ground beside her.

 

“In war, victory,” Clarel croaks, as they go stumbling back towards Anders, the Archdemon prowling towards them. “In peace, vigilance.”

 

_ In death, sacrifice _ , Compassion finishes in Hawke’s mind, as lightning crackles in Clarel’s fingertips.

 

With a single leap, Hawke hurls herself through the Fade and emerges next to Anders, pinning him roughly to the floor. They crash hard against the stone as the archdemon’s flailing limbs fly over them, their screams lost amidst the carnage of its fall.

 

“Get up!” Hawke yells as the ground begins to shake, heaving Anders to his feet and looking around in the dust and smoke. “Run! Everyone fucking run!”

 

They do, with Hawke’s hands still grasping desperately onto Anders’s armour, pulling him forwards as the others stumble for footing ahead of her.

 

Then, there is no ground.

 

Anders throws his arms around Hawke’s waist as they go into freefall, the ground impossible to see, nothing but darkness and dust and screams around them.

 

_ No!  _ Hawke screams, holding out her hand.  _ I’m not dying. I’m not letting you die. We are not leaving Bethany alone! _

 

She forces every ounce of magic she has into her left hand, and tears it open.

 

\---

 

They’re falling.

 

Anders’s arms are still around her waist, holding onto her in a death grip, and it feels like the wind is tearing her skin away. She should be screaming, but the sound of it is lost in the rush of the air, peeling and pulling and -

 

No, it’s not her skin. It’s something on her. Something inside her. Anders’s arms tighten around her, holding against the wind, and Hawke realises from the feeling of his teeth scraping against her neck that he is screaming too.

 

Then, stillness.

 

They stumble, not letting go of each other, Hawke’s arms now fixed onto Anders’s arms. He’s wearing Warden armour, she realises belatedly, the armour he’d once told her he never wanted to put on again. It makes everything feel unreal. It makes the sand-seared pain of her skin flicker and fade.

 

But something is wrong. Something is so very, very wrong. And it isn’t just that she’s standing on the ceiling.

 

“Little bird?”

 

Hawke blinks, and the world flips nauseatingly fast. One moment she is upside down, the next the world is right again, except that Varric and Blackwall are standing on the walls and Cassandra is at an uneasy diagonal.

 

None of this is as impossible as the figures before her.

 

One is a woman, with a vibrant glow to her skin - pale blue with an ivory sheen. Lines cross every part of her face, wrinkles so deep they look like scars, and a tumble of white hair frames her face. Her lips are parted; she is the one speaking. This is wrong, terribly wrong...because she is speaking with Compassion’s voice.

 

Next to her stands a gaunt man, almost skeletal in appearance, wearing plate armour. He is a much richer shade of blue, with luminescent eyes that Hawke recognises from every nightmare she’s ever had since she left Kirkwall. She doesn’t need the gasp that rushes into her ear to know this is Justice; every inch of his demeanour screams it.

 

“Compassion?” Hawke gasps, forcing her way out of Anders’s grip and rushing over. The spirit’s form is warm beneath her fingertips, but closer to a liquid than a solid. “How…”

 

“This is the Fade.” Beside her, Anders steps up, saying nothing to Justice directly. “This is the - ugh, I hate the fade.”

 

“It looks different,” Hawke observes.  _ You’re so normal. How can you be so fucking normal? _

 

“Because it doesn’t look like the Gallows? Better thank Andraste for that,  _ Herald. _ ”

 

_ Yes, _ she thinks, remembering the last few months in Kirkwall,  _ definitely normal. _

 

Varric clears his throat loudly, stepping down onto what appears to be the ground. “Why don’t you two catch up later, after we’ve worked out how the sodding hell we get out of here.”

 

“This place,” Blackwall observes grimly, “it’s just like the fortress. We press on, we might just get to the main hall.”

 

Focusing, Hawke looks intently at Compassion.  _ I don’t understand. How are you here? Like this? Are you alright?  _

 

Seconds pass and nothing happens, save for Varric wondering aloud how it is that humans and elves manage to dream if the Fade is like this. 

 

“You can’t hear me,” Hawke says, to Compassion’s shaking head. “But they can hear you? See you?”

 

Justice folds his arms over his chest. “Yes.” His voice is deeper than she expects, harder. Anders, it seems, had always softened the edges of it.

 

“This didn’t happen before. When we were in the Fade, in Feynriel’s dream. You were - more present, but Compassion was with me like normal.”

 

“Hey, look at this way - we get to put a face to the nice voice in your head that keeps you alive. And to the whiny one in Blondie’s that tries to kill everyone. And,” Varric grins, “now you’ve got even more people to abandon you to demons.”

 

She reaches out and clubs him in the shins with her staff. “Not. Funny,” she hisses, even as her wallop serves to dismiss the tension with humour.

 

Anders grimaces. “Not all of us left,” he mumbles, so quietly she only just hears it. He lifts his head and stares levelly at the spirit before him. “Well, this is disconcerting.”

 

“Something has pulled us apart from another,” Justice states.

 

Compassion steps forward, reaching for Hawke’s left hand and examining it. “It is this, little bird. It has opened the Fade so greatly that you have opened it in yourselves, too.”

 

“Doors,” Hawke sighs. “Like Cole said.”

 

_ No, no, don’t think of Bethany right now, not with him next to you. _

 

“I think so.”

 

“Can...can we get you back?”

 

The question makes Anders tense up at her side, and it hits Hawke then that he is right there. She could stretch out her fingers and touch him - she can still feel bruises on every inch of her body from barrelling him into the floor, and he must have them too. Real, and here, in this place that is both not real and too real all at once.

 

She tries to draw a breath - it comes through reedy, and harsh, and makes his head turn towards her.

 

“I do not know,” Compassion says, her eyes not missing an inch of Hawke’s movements. “Are you able to call my power?”

 

Focusing, Hawke tries to summon the aura - nothing. Then, twisting her mouth in thought, she gives in to the impulse of a moment ago, reaching out and touching Anders’s shoulder. Magic flows from her fingertips, suffusing his body and healing every bruise and scrape - it envelops her as well, and the others, just as if Compassion had been within her.

 

Anders shivers. Compassion smiles. “If you can call my power, little bird, we are not lost to one another.”

 

Belatedly, Cassandra stumbles over to them, having negotiated herself down from her strange angle. “This...this is the Fade? It is incredible.”

 

“This place is dangerous,” Blackwall counters. “I will gladly fight demons, but I have no desire to see where they come from.”

 

“And why,” Varric growls, “is there red lyrium here.”

 

“It isn’t real. It’s just a reflection of the red lyrium in the waking world,” explains Anders, still glancing sideways at Hawke.

 

“Thanks, Blondie, that’s really reassuring. Now we get to go mad in everyone’s dreams as well as in real life!”

 

Anders glowers. “Hello to you too, Varric.”

 

“Speaking of demons,” Blackwall interjects, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder, “how about we talk about this one.”

 

“Justice is  _ not _ a demon.”

 

“Oh? Then who was it that sacrificed that girl out there. Someone in that body did. Are you gonna take the credit?”

 

The pain that flashes across Anders’s face is the most comforting thing Hawke has ever seen.  _ You’re still in there,  _ she thinks to the silence of Compassion’s absence.  _ I knew you would be. _

 

“Corypheus has proven capable of controlling our shared form,” Justice explains frankly, producing a sword from his back and stepping forward, standing to face Blackwall head on. “It is a result of Anders’s connection to the Grey Wardens, and the Elder One’s impeccable logic.”

 

“His  _ what? _ ” Hawke snaps, narrowing her eyes.

 

“By his will, the Grey Wardens seek to right a great wrong.”

 

She clenches her hands into fists. “And give him an army.”

 

“With  _ blood magic, _ ” Varric adds, throwing up his hands. “Because we all know that goes so well.”

 

“Enough.” Cassandra’s interjection is sharp, but a relief nonetheless. “There is an army out there depending upon us. We must press on, Inquisitor.”

 

_ I couldn’t agree more. _

 

Of course, it isn’t that simple. You can’t just walk on through the Fade without  _ something _ occurring. And for a moment Hawke finds herself wondering if things aren’t just like before, in Feynriel’s dream, because the first thing they find is a woman in Chantry habit, with a face winkled enough to rival Compassion’s.

 

“Divine Justinia? Most Holy?” Cassandra asks, her voice breathy.

 

The figure smiles fondly. “Cassandra.” Then her eyes cast backwards, to the rest of them. “Champion - no. Inquisitor. And Compassion and Justice. It is a strange pair, the two of you make.”

 

A glance passes between the spirits before Justice says, “Faith.”

 

“Yes,” Compassion says, nodding. “Yes. I thought of Hope, but no, you are so much more than that.”

 

Cassandra steps forward, placing herself between Compassion and Hawke. “This - this is a spirit?” Her face crumples in sadness.

 

“If they say she is, then she is,” Hawke says, softly. “I’m sorry.”

 

“But...she is so real. So like her.”

 

“Hey,” Varric says, coming up besides them. “Don’t think of it as not her. Think of her as - as the Divine’s soul.”

 

Faith smiles, and inclines her head. “If you wish to think of me that way,” she says warmly, “I would not mind.”

 

Even still, Hawke listens to the spirit tentatively, nervously. The Fade is full of tricks, but Compassion can be trusted, that she’s sure of. She lets her hand fall to the side and reach for Compassion’s own, tracing the almost gelatinous ridges that form the wrinkles on her unreal hand.

 

When Faith talks about the Nightmare, Hawke feels something begin to coil in her gut. She does not want to be here. She definitely does not want to be here  _ with _ her nightmares. So she says little as they go onwards at Faith’s suggestion, turning aside demons in the search for what look like balls of Veil light.

 

The magic is warm against her fingertips, and pulls her into what feels like a dream - but not just her. Everyone. Everyone sees as Corypheus stands there, surrounded by Wardens, the Divine chained by their magic. Everyone sees as Hawke throws the door open, a broom forgotten near her, dressed in that ridiculous servant’s uniform and a terrible wig.

 

When they see the Divine batter the strange orb in Hawke’s direction, Hawke stumbles to the side, catching herself on a rock formation. “She...she knocked it. The orb. The Divine. She is the reason that I have - this.”

 

_ The Divine is the voice of the Maker. The will of the Maker. His hand. _

 

Hawke holds her hand out and watches the mark crackle upon her skin, sparks and skeins of green energy that send jolts of pain firing up her arm. Even when she closes her hand into a fist, the power still flickers through her flesh.

 

“What is it?”

 

It takes her a moment to realise the question comes from Anders - from right beside her, because she’s entirely missed that he’s sat down next to her, an arm’s reach away.

 

“Corypheus wanted it. It’s - it was how he meant to open the Black City. But it’s stuck, on me, forever.”

 

Anders reaches out as if to touch it, then flinches back the moment she looks at him. “Does it hurt, lo- does it hurt?”

 

She should say yes, and nothing more. She should. But she’s tired, and looking at the face of someone who has no right to be as fucking  _ normal  _ as this, so much more himself than the last time she saw him. Is it because Justice is standing across from them? Did going back to the Wardens calm Justice down, and bring more of Anders back?

 

So instead Hawke looks him in the eyes and says, “It’s killing me, Anders.”

 

“No,” says a voice, but it isn’t his - it’s the spirit who has come to stand next to them, ephemeral blade clutched in his hands. “I will not accept this.”

 

His declaration only serves to make Hawke sick to her stomach. “I’m not exactly taking it lying down,” she counters, pushing herself back to her feet. She turns away from Justice, from Anders, and steps up alongside Blackwall and Cassandra to push the way forward.

 

After a moment, she hears Compassion whisper, “This is the creature you have been serving.”

 

_ Maker, I love that spirit. _

 

\---

 

It gets worse after that.

 

They round the corner, and Hawke sees an army of faces. Faces that she knows well - too well. The first has her mother’s face, and slices through her with claw-like fingers before Blackwall charges in and barrels it out of the way. The second looks like an ogre, but not just any ogre - the ogre that crushed Bethany into a pulp. Hawke stumbles backwards, throwing spells out without thinking, unable to look away.

 

Every person who she has ever lost, every thing that has ever stolen from her, stumbles forward and claws into her friends.

 

When the last of them - Fenris, dressed in the armour he wore the day she killed him - crumples to the ground, Hawke turns and vomits up the wall beside her.

 

“Maggots!” Cassandra exclaims, disgusted. “I hate maggots.”

 

“I did not see maggots,” Blackwall states, his face grim and sallow.

 

There is no sound to Compassion’s footfalls as she makes her way over to where Hawke stands, leaning against the wall coated in her vomit. “Breathe, little bird. Just breathe.”

 

“Hawke,” says Varric, when she can breathe without her throat hitching, “what was it?”

 

“Mother. Fenris. Bethany. Marethari. The Arishok. Decimus. Tarohne. Quentin. Meredith. Idunna. Danzig, Ors-”

 

Varric’s arms wrap around her and pull her down into a hug that silences the names of the bodies that litter the ground around them. They are still there, with Hawke shaking, when the Nightmare’s voice echoes through the air.

 

“Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence that there is no Maker, that all your “faith” has been for naught.”

 

With a huff of breath, Cassandra steps backwards and comes alongside Hawke and Varric, clasping her hand upon Hawke’s shoulder. “Come. Let us find this creature and silence it for good.”

 

They manage to get down a single slope before the voice starts up again. Blackwall is the Nightmare’s next victim, as it rumbles out, “There’s nothing like a Grey Warden. And you are  _ nothing _ like a Grey Warden.”

 

Ahead of her, Hawke sees Blackwall tense his shoulders up and hang his head. “I’ll show you a Warden’s power,” he grumbles.

 

“Do not fear that he can see the truth of your hearts,” Compassion says, staying at the heart of them like a vigilant watcher. “It is his nature to understand your fear. It is simply what he is. It does not mean he understands you. You are all so much more than you fear.”

 

Hawke tries to remind herself of this as the Nightmare turns its attention to Varric, but sparks of lightning still fall in her wake as they march all the faster, turning aside fear demons as they go (she no longer looks at them; she looks only at the people with her).

 

“Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You allowed Hawke to leave Kirkwall and seek out the rebellion. You will fail her, and you will fail Bethany, just like you failed Bartrand.”

 

Varric settles Bianca’s stock against his shoulder. “Just keep talking, Smiley.”

 

“More memories!” Cassandra calls from the front.

 

Hawke lifts her head just enough to see movement on the periphery of her vision. “Clear the demons out first. I’ll get them all at once.”

 

The fight is hard, harder still because Hawke will  _ not _ let herself look at the faces of the people she killed. At least they sound wrong - hissing and hoarse, not like their real selves. She casts runes upon the ground beneath their feet, tends the wounds of the people around her. Halfway through the fight she realises that, habitually, she and Anders have come to stand back to back at the heart of the group.

 

When the demons are dead, the release of the memories is almost a relief - until, scrabbling to climb a vertical wall, Hawke turns and sees the monstrosity that Orsino became. Except she can see the bodies he’s made of, and they aren’t unfamiliar. Her mother’s eyes peer out from one of the Harvester’s many shoulders, her sister’s whole torso emerges from another ridge of skin, even her father’s face is there, at the crest of Orsino’s fleshy mass. Screams tear from her mouth and her remembered self, and she climbs, climbs, climbs.

 

_ Keep going, little bird. Keep going. _

 

Compassion’s voice shouldn’t be in her head, not here, but Hawke has no time to think about that - at the top of the wall two hands appear, both wrinkled and glowing. She kicks off one of Orsino’s abhorrent arms and throws herself upwards, caught by the now familiar feel of spiritual arms.

 

Stumbling to the top, Hawke stares for a moment at the two figures in front of her - Compassion, and Justina, or if not her then the spirit of Faith. Her feet fail, but Compassion steps forward, oozing into her body like liquid into cloth, and Justinia pushes Hawke towards the way out.

 

The Temple comes into view around her just as the vision fades.

 

Sitting down onto the ground, Hawke wraps her shaking arms around her knees and tries not to throw up.

 

“That’s what they look like for you,” Anders says softly, his voice cracking. “The demons?”

 

She nods. 

 

Her hair flutters over her face, shielding her from the world, so she almost misses his whispered, “I’m so sorry, love.”

 

That’s when the Nightmare goes for him.

 

“It’s much harder to deny the truth with him apart from you, isn’t it? Justice was righteous until he joined with you - yes, you tainted him almost as much as that blood did you. Fairness and balance destroyed by the anger of a man who would do anything if he thought it right. What a hypocrite you are.”

 

The two of them freeze next to one another, with Justice and Compassion just ahead of them. Canting her head to the side, Hawke sees a tremble in the fingers Anders keeps wrapped around his staff, a tremble that doesn’t fade no matter how pale his knuckles turn with his grip.

 

“Andraste’s knickerweasels,” Anders curses. “Now he sounds like Merrill.”

 

Tension in every inch of her body, Hawke forces herself to ignore the falsehood in his levity and play along. “Don’t be silly. If he sounded like Merrill, you’d actually be afraid.”

 

The small, grateful half-smile he sends her is worth the effort.

 

\---

 

She knows it’s coming, but Hawke still isn’t prepared for the moment the Nightmare turns on her - right towards the end, when the spirit of Faith has told them they just need to make it to the end, and then she can take down the barrier.

 

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke?”

 

Compassion is at her side in an instant, one hand on her shoulder, the other weaving a barrier around them. “Everything he says is true to you, but that doesn’t mean it can hurt you more. It already hurts. This is just a reminder. You will survive this.”

 

“...did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a God?”

 

A hoarse laugh parts Hawke’s lips. “Corypheus won’t like you more for doing his work for him, you know. You’re just a tool to him.”

 

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. You may have closed the Breach, but you cannot change what it has done to her. Ah, well. At least you have found your faith again. Perhaps it will be a comfort when her magic destroys her.”

 

Protests and reassurances sound around her; Hawke ignores them. Her body lights up with static as she charges forward, on towards the barrier, the others stumbling to keep up with her. The spirit of Faith rushes forwards to begin breaking it down, and Hawke unleashes all of the magic that she has given her daughter on the creatures around them.

 

Anders stands at her side, perplexed, weaving spell after spell to keep her alive.

 

“Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life. I am the Veiled Hand of Corypheus himself. The demon army you fear? I command it. They are all bound through me!”

 

Faith smiles. “Ah, so if we banish you, we banish the demons? Thank you, every fear come to life.”

 

They stagger through the opened barrier, the rift back to the waking world before them, as Hawke’s magic becomes exhausted. She does not look at the pile of bodies that she has killed, again. At the rictus in her mother’s face amidst the char of electrified flesh.

 

But it isn’t the end. Just like in Kirkwall. It isn’t the end.

 

The Nightmare - it must be the Nightmare, nothing else would take this form - looms up above her with the same abhorrent figure of Orsino’s bloated body, woven from the bodies of her victims. They run, but it is there no matter where they go, and panic begins to spike in her chest.

 

Then, there is light. Soft, gentle, dappled over the ground where the spirit that is not Justinia is drifting above them.

 

“If you would,” she says gently, “please tell Leliana: ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too’.”

 

Then the light suffses the Nightmare before them, obscuring the image of Hawke’s amassed failures.

 

\---

 

Each of them almost dies twice in the battle with the creature the Nightmare leaves behind, and Hawke doesn’t want to think about what happens when you die physically in the Fade.

 

It’s Compassion and Justice who keep them going - one stood at the centre of them, weaving their wounds back together and bringing them back when they fall, the other head on with the creature that strikes with half a dozen limbs at once.

 

There is blood everywhere, everyone’s blood, but Hawke cannot think about it as she hurls spell after spell. She freezes the other demons that come at the creature’s call so that Blackwall can shatter them with a whirl of his hammer - she speeds up Varric’s shots so that he reloads like a blur - she interlaces Cassandra’s already glowing sword with the crackle of lightning.

 

They defeat it, but it isn’t enough. It’s never fucking enough. There is always something else. This time, it’s a shadow, looming over them as they break towards the rift home.

 

“Faith is gone,” Compassion says, sounding almost afraid. That is impossible. Compassion is never afraid. Compassion is determination made real. “We have nothing left to stop him.”

 

Justice nods. “Someone must delay him. It is the right course.”

 

“What? No. No one is fucking staying behind, we are all getting of here,” Hawke snaps, but hands - warm hands, familiar hands - grab her just below the elbows.

 

“If no one stays,” Anders says, shaking her with his grip around her arms, “we all die. I’m going.”

 

_ No no no no no. _

 

She has to do something. She has to stop him.

 

But Hawke doesn’t look at him. Hawke looks over him, past him, at the glowing figure in armour. Can she ask this? Can she really, knowing that it might kill Anders anyway, knowing that even if it doesn’t he will feel alone forever?

 

Hawke thinks of Bethany.

 

_ Yes, I can. _

 

“You are immortal.”

 

Justice nods. “In a manner of speaking. We may be destroyed, but we will reform. The strongest of us retain our memories, if we are fortunate.”

 

Closing her eyes, Hawke tries, again, to summon Compassion’s aura. She has to be sure. When it doesn’t come, because the spirit is standing right next to her, she says, “Is it just to ask a mortal to give up their lives when an immortal could take their place?”

 

“No!” Anders yells, face contorting in panic. Hawke shifts, lets her arms come round to grip his where they’re holding her, keeping him from running away. She’s stronger, now. “No, you can’t!”

 

Behind them, the Nightmare begins to roar.

 

“It won’t kill him,” Hawke continues, nodding to Justice and then Compassion. “You’re both outside of us now. Our links are different, here in the Fade. If we leave and you don’t, the severing never occurs. I’m right, aren’t I? You can stay, and he won’t die.”

 

Justice folds his arms and stares her down. “It would not kill him,” he admits nonetheless.

 

“Then answer my question. Is letting him give up his life just, when you could give yours, knowing you would gain another and he would not?”

 

Now Anders is yelling in her face, using all his strength to pull away - for a moment Hawke loses her grip, but then Varric is there, kicking Anders’s knees out from under him and getting him in a headlock.

 

“Answer me, Justice!”

 

The spirit doesn’t answer. He bows; deeply, formally, with one leg stretched out before him and one hand swinging to the side. Then, with a rush of power that is both sound and feeling, he draws his sword.

 

“Farewell, my friend,” he says, and charges away.

 

None of them look at his retreating form except for Compassion, who weeps, and Anders, who screams for so long his voice dies away into nothingness. He forgets, in his anguish, to fight back as Hawke drags him through the gateway to the waking world.

 

\---

 

The ground is hard when they land on it, hard and real, and Hawke can feel cramps running up her arms where they’re locked around Anders in a death grip. He isn’t moving. He’s barely breathing. She stays still for a moment anyway, willing herself to be calm, to be steady, to be what he needs. The feeling of his body within her embrace is like a strange, distant memory.

 

As green light flickers around them, she lifts a hand and focuses, dropping Compassion and closing the rift without getting up.

 

Someone shouts nearby, in triumph and elation, and Hawke moves.

 

People try to get her attention, but she ignores them, drawing Compassion back into her -  _ you’re beautiful, my friend, but this is so much less strange  _ \- and pouring all of her magic into stabilising the man in front of her.

 

Here, in the light of the coming dawn, Hawke can see every line of the past four years etched into his skin. There are so many more than there were. He has grey hairs in his temples. Not many; just enough to be noticeable. She smoothes them back against his head as she checks his skull for impact wounds.

 

_ I have no idea what this is. No one has ever done this before. What’s wrong with you? What have I done? _

 

“Hawke,” Varric says, his voice cutting into her reality. She has no idea how much time has passed - her exhaustion isn’t an accurate reading anymore. He presses a lyrium potion into her hand. “The Wardens. What are we doing with the Wardens?”

 

One hand still on Anders’s pulse  _ (too slow, low blood pressure, have to get it back up),  _ Hawke waves Stroud over. “Who is the highest ranking Warden alive?”

 

“That would be me, I am afraid,” he replies, solemnly. “Then Carver.”

 

_ Well, he’s going to love that.  _ “What do you think I should do? I can’t do nothing, Stroud. Wardens killed the Divine.”

 

He nods, moustache twitching, and looks out at the broken remnants of his order. “You have two choices, Inquisitor. You can exile us, or you can take us into your care. I do not envy you the choice. No matter their intent, the Wardens have committed terrible wrongs. Some may see mercy granted to us as condoning the order’s actions. For this reason, I must defer the decision to your judgement.”

 

_ Of fucking course. _

 

“If I exile you,” she asks quietly, dropping her voice low, “you have to take him away, too?”

 

“He is a Warden, Inquisitor,” Stroud replies, shrewdly adding, “it would be better that the Wardens hear the judgement from you.”

 

Hawke’s eyes flicker constantly, incessantly, desperately to Anders’s unconscious body as she stands before the surviving Wardens and conscripts them into the Inquisition. There will be consequences for this; she doesn’t give a damn about any of them. She can tell herself that Justinia wouldn’t have wanted the Wardens thrown out to dry. It’s true - probably. It’s not why she does it.

 

She turns, and gives the second set of orders.

 

“Varric, I need water, clean cloths, and some of that disgusting food paste the cooks sent us with. Cassandra, Stroud, take the able bodied and help Cullen clear out the rest of the fortress. Leave however many you need to defend the wounded. Blackwall, kill anything without a face that so much as looks at me.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“When we’re safe, then we’ll think about what we do next,” Hawke says, placing a hand on Anders’s chest. 

 

_ When he’s safe, that is. _

 

\---

 

Moving an army isn’t simple. There are too many wounded to just pack them up and march straight away. So when they’ve gathered everyone, Wardens and all, back in the camp, Hawke reluctantly leaves Varric watching over Anders and moves through the wounded, power glowing in her fingertips as she helps each and every one of them.

 

_ Compassion _ , she asks, when the last of them is groaning in mostly incoherent thanks.  _ Will he ever be able to heal anyone again? _

 

_ I do not know, little bird. When one such as the two of you loses their bond - normally it means death. _

 

_ Then how  _ **_is_ ** _ he alive? _

 

_ He was not bonded to Justice, not in the same way. Justice shared his form, wholly and truly. I reach through the Veil to help you. In the Fade, they were wholly separate, just as you and I were. If I had remained, you would have lived too. _

 

_ He was a spirit healer before Justice. Why didn’t he die then? _

 

_ That must have been their bond, too. Gain one and lose another, and it is like you have lost nothing. _

 

_ Would you forgive me for it? _

 

_ I am Compassion, little bird. I am the forgiveness that it is hardest to give. _

 

Hawke sighs, and drags herself back towards the tent. Whatever she’s done to Anders, it’s not something that has a simple answer. And, she’s sure, it’s not something he’s going to thank her for.

 

When she closes her eyes, his expression of horror flashes across her face, like they’re back in Kirkwall with the Chantry burning behind them, and she’s told him to get out of her sight.

 

By the time she reaches the tent there are sparks crackling between her fingers, and she wonders again if it’s possible that Bethany’s lack of control comes from her, not Anders. Or Justice. The thought sears into her mind as she laces the tent shut.

 

“You’re here,” a voice says, and the sparks jump out of her fingers. Fortunately, the canvas is waxed - it’s not going up that easily.

 

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen.”

 

She’s got more to say, but as soon as she’s turned to look at him there’s fur in her face and sharp metal jabbing into her shoulders. The only soft thing in his embrace is the touch of his hands, still gloved, at the side of her neck and small of her back. His hands that are shaking in time with his breathing.

 

“Do you know -”

 

“Cassandra told me,” he answers roughly, his voice a hot breath against her ear. “Will he live?”

 

“Yes. I think so. I’m not sure.” All truths, and all things that make her hands tighten where they’ve found purchase, one in his hair and one in the cloth crossing his torso. The last truth tears from her like blades in her throat. “I thought I’d lost him.”

 

Cullen inhales sharply, and for a moment Hawke thinks  _ that’s it, I’ve said the thing that will truly make him hate me _ \- but he doesn’t let go. He shifts instead, and lips brush against the spot where her jaw meets her throat. “I thought I’d lost  _ you _ ,” he murmurs.

 

The sound that escapes her throat is less of a gasp and more of a whimper, one that goes out as soon as Cullen catches it in his lips. 

 

“Don’t  _ do  _ that,” he insists, mid-kiss, and Hawke frowns. There’s been a lot of people telling her not to do things, lately.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Leave me. Again.”

 

_ Oh. _

 

Without thought, Hawke drops her healing aura and starts pulling at the buckles on his armor. Two straps in he tuts at her, glaring like she’s an idiot recruit, and starts removing the whole flaming contraption himself.

 

She knew his Templar armour by heart; knew which buckles you really had to undo to get him out and which you just left. She could’ve taken it off blindfolded - once, she actually did. This armour is strange and foreign and, now, scattered all over the ground with the pieces of her own, leather tossed over metal. They kick it in random directions as they stumble, hands and mouths grasping for one another, towards the bedroll.

 

“Quietly,” Cullen says, his voice dipping low in warning. It comes out like a growl that makes heat pool between Hawke’s legs. She tears the rest of her clothes off, and doesn’t object when he throws her bodily onto the thin excuse for a mattress.

 

In Kirkwall, it had always been a lot slower - especially when all three of them were there. Anders hadn’t liked to be rushed; their time seemed so short then, even though it had been years, and he had preferred to pretend that they had the lifetime that he thought he couldn’t give.

 

But the Nightmare’s words are still echoing in her head, and she’s  _ missed _ Cullen, both in the Fade and for every year that she’s been on the run. His lips are hot on the cold skin of her stomach, still clammy with the sweat of battle, and it feels like their every brush is burning away the coiling mist she can still feel in her bones.

 

“Please,” she whispers, afraid to raise her voice any further - though whether out of logic or because she’s naked underneath him and that means it’s time to do whatever Cullen says, she’s not sure.

 

She’s afraid, for a moment, that it won’t be the same. That her memories are gilded in rose, and nothing he does now will ever compare to remembering moments stolen in a city of terrified apostates and righteous warriors.

 

But he hasn’t forgotten her body. She realises that at once when he ducks his head between her legs, splays her with his fingers, and ghosts his tongue over her like sunlight. No, Cullen hasn’t forgotten what  _ please _ means at all.

 

She manages to stay quiet until he slips two fingers inside her - the third makes her yank her fist to her mouth and bite down on her knuckles, silencing the moan that tries to pour from her mouth. He doesn’t content himself with making her come just the once, instead pulling a second from her like a sigh in the wake of the first. His cheeks have made the soft skin of her inner thighs burn by the time he pulls away, up to kiss her with lips that taste of her cunt.

 

Anders never let them do that. Anders always insisted on that kiss being his. The hand that grips the flesh of her hip tightly suggests Cullen, too, hasn’t forgotten that.

 

Hawke licks his mouth clean as he pushes into her, his groan falling hot and loud into her mouth. She shifts her hips and latches her feet behind him, pulling him in as tightly as possible and holding him there.

 

“I thought you said we had to be quiet,” she murmurs into his ear, then plants her hands against his chest and pushes. They roll over, Cullen’s back hitting the dried grass on the other side of the bedroll, but if he cares then it gets lost in the whimper that escapes his gritted teeth.

 

“Please, Hawke.”

 

Hawke grins so brilliantly that the candlelight makes her eyes gleam, and fucks Cullen into the ground, until he comes shouting into the arm he throws across his face to stifle it.

 

\---

 

The travelling is slow, and hard, and Hawke spends the entirety of it in the back of a cart with Anders - still unconscious, but stable now. She says half a dozen words in total to Cullen throughout the entire journey, but Varric still stares pointedly at her over the campfire anyway, until she admits that  _ yes, something happened,  _ but refuses to give him anything more.

 

Stroud doesn’t join them - he rides with a small complement of Wardens to Weisshapt, promising to meet Carver on the way, and see if they can do anything to gain the help and support of the Wardens out there. As well, Hawke thinks, as undertaking the unenviable task of reporting in. 

 

She expects there to be backlash when they get back to Skyhold. For people to challenge her on recruiting the Wardens, to accuse her of bias, to shout and yell and threaten her. What she doesn’t expect is a riot.

 

It happens two days after they get back, when Anders is still unconscious and she hasn’t left his side for longer than it takes to use the latrine. They’ve put him in the tower, both to placate the Templars who know exactly who he is and to keep him furthest from the bulk of the people.

 

The rioters surround the tower, pressing Cullen and his Templars back against the doors by sheer force of numbers. She watches them, breath caught in her throat, from the arrow slit - none of them know she is here, and she thinks it would be much worse if they did. For now they’re chanting her name, claiming their crusade is her will.

 

“Listen to me! Please, listen!” Cullen calls, his voice carrying even over the din. 

 

To her astonishment, Hawke watches the rioters fall into silence. They pull their torches away from the futile and frankly idiotic attempt to set fire to the tower and turn to him, seemingly enraptured.

 

“Knight-Captain!” one of them calls, “Knight-Captain! You must listen to us!”

 

“That is  _ not _ my title! Not anymore.” There is a scraping sound, and Cullen climbs out of Hawke’s view - she presses herself to the gap and sees him stood atop the stairs, elevated so that all can see him. “But I urge you to listen to me nonetheless. The man within these walls is not responsible for these crimes.”

 

Hawke has heard Cullen lie before.

 

She’s heard him divert the truth on her behalf, and on Anders’s. To the people around them. To other Templars. To Meredith, even. She’s heard him say, with conviction, that he believes the two of them to be monitored and under control. She’s heard him say he was in places he wasn’t, doing things he wasn’t, spouting opinions like  _ every mage must be contained  _ so that he passes as a true believer _. _

 

When Cullen lies, he does it using the truth. What he says to the rioters is not that.

 

“You have heard that the Wardens were forced to enact blood magic by the Elder One, Corypheus. That they sacrificed their warriors and saw them possessed by demons, believing this to be the only way to protect people like yourselves. They were wrong! Blood magic is never justified.”

 

From the back of the crowd, someone yells, “It wasn’t their fault!” - another voice counters this, but more rise up in defence of the Wardens, proof that Josephine and Leliana’s pro-Warden propaganda has been hard at work in the time it has taken them to travel back from Adamant.

 

Cullen waits - he waits for the crowd to stir themselves up, until they are in a frenzy of support for the Wardens who were so controlled by Corypheus. “The man within this tower, Warden Anders, was not a victim of that work. But he, too, was possessed. For years, a demon of Vengeance has imprisoned him within his body. It has caused unspeakable acts with his form.”

 

The crowd goes so quiet that all Hawke can hear is her own breath, and the overwhelming race of her pulse.

 

“I was there, in Kirkwall. I knew the Grand Cleric, and the Sisters and Revered Mothers who served that Chantry. I have prayed there to the Maker, to Andraste, and I saw that same house of Light cast to the ground. So hear me when I tell you - this was not the fault of the man who lies within these walls. This was the fault of the demon who possessed him.”

 

“Then we must destroy the demon!”

 

Something shifts beside Cullen that Hawke can’t see - an arm reaches out and grabs him on the shoulder. 

 

“The Inquisitor already has!” Varric calls, just as Hawke recognises the angle of that hand. His voice, she notices, isn’t made for calling to crowds in the same way that Cullen’s is. “In the battle of Adamant, she and several of us were flung to the Fade, including Blondie in there. In the Fade, the demon separated. It was destroyed there, and by the grace of the Herald of Andraste this man in here has his life back. So maybe you might wanna think twice about setting fire to it, yeah?”

 

Within minutes they have the crowd soothed, torches dulled, and they have begun to filter back to the rest of Skyhold. When Cullen steps down from his perch, Hawke rushes over to Anders’s side, checking his vitals - asleep, still, as he has been for all this time.

 

The door downstairs slams shut, and voices carry up to her in their wake.

 

“...cannot believe that you would do that. I thought better of you. To lie to all those people, when you know the opposite to be true.”

 

“Would you rather the tower here was being torn down brick by brick, Seeker?” Varric asks with such smugness that Hawke can clearly picture his face as he says it.

 

“Of  _ course  _ not, but…”

 

Footsteps sound on the stairs to her level, and Hawke looks up in time to see Cullen appear at the top of them, the last steps taken almost at a run. Horror creases his features so intensely that something inside Hawke’s heart breaks, deeply.

 

She pads softly across the room and wraps her arms around him as he sobs.

 

\---

 

After he’s dealt with Cassandra, Varric quietly explains to the Templars that it might be best if they just left the Commander to it for the rest of the day. His not-so-subtle hints reach Hawke and Cullen where they sit, still at the top of the stairs, a tangle of limbs and tears.

 

Barris has the Templars organised and mostly out of the building sharply, though not before Varric has also - pleasingly - thanked them all for defending a man they thought their enemy. They salute him, a movement she hears by the clanking of armour, and then follow the officers outside.

 

_ I think he’s learning,  _ Compassion murmurs in Hawke’s mind, and she chuckles brokenly into Cullen’s hair.

 

“Hey,” Varric says from the bottom of the stairs once the tower is truly empty of all but them. “You okay up there?”

 

“Little bit of a mess,” Hawke says honestly, slipping one hand between them to wipe Cullen’s cheeks clean. He’s stopped sobbing, but his breaths are still catching in the back of his throat, and she knows from experience that it’ll take hours to clear up. “Thank you, Varric.”

 

“Don’t thank me. I’m not the one that came up with that spin on it. Didn’t think you had it in you, Curly.”

 

Uncurling just enough, Cullen glares down at the dwarf. “I did not do it to prove myself to you.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Varric snaps, thumping his way up the stairs until they stand at eye level. “Prove yourself? What d’you think this is, one of my books? I’m not Hawke’s father, I’m definitely not some owner you get to rent her out from, and if you think you’ve got anything to prove to me, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought you were. Now shut up and hold onto her whilst I go and get you both some dinner. You do remember what that is, right?”

 

“I…”

 

“Oh, and maybe think about sitting somewhere more comfortable than the stairs.”

 

Cullen stares blankly away after the door slams again, so Hawke does the only thing she can think to distract him. She kisses him. Gently at first, but then she tastes salt on his lips, and she remembers that she has  _ never  _ seen Cullen cry, not the moment that Anders destroyed the Chantry, not the moment she pushed Bethany into his arms and ran off to face a Magister, and not the moment that he found her dying in a snow drift.

 

He kisses her back like he’s trying to crawl inside her for safety.

 

By the time she’s pulled away from him, Hawke’s climbed half into his lap and there are tears rolling down his cheeks again.

 

“I know,” she says, brushing them away. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

 

He closes his eyes and rests his head against hers, sighing. “Varric is right.”

 

“Infuriatingly often. What this time?”

 

“The stairs aren’t comfortable.”

 

Despite everything, Hawke laughs.

 

\---

 

In the hundreds of hours that Anders lies comatose in a Templar’s bed, Hawke thinks many times about what it will be like when he wakes up. She imagines him screaming and sobbing again. She imagines him doing nothing but stare at her silently. She imagines him climbing from the bed and choking the life from her throat.

 

None of these things happen.

 

Instead, Anders wakes up when she and Cullen are asleep.

 

They’ve taken it in turns to keep watch, with Varric and Merrill, but the fluctuations in Anders’s breathing scare her too much to leave. So much that Merrill, sighing, goes to fetch Cullen from his work - the work that, Hawke suspects, is all that is keeping him sane. 

 

She falls asleep with her legs over Cullen’s, pressed up against his side, half of his armour lying on the floor next to them. The spare bed is empty, devoid of the blanket that - astonishingly - one of Bull’s Chargers knitted her. It’s heavy, and soft, and reminds her of one that she had back in Kirkwall. Cullen’s last movement, before kissing her to sleep, was to pull it over them.

 

It smothers her, suffusing the air with his scent, and so Hawke is not the one who wakes up when Anders tries to creep out of the room.

 

“You know,” Cullen says carefully, “if you actually manage to make it to the stairs, you’ll just fall down them.”

 

Anders stumbles then, catching himself on the edge of the next bed. “Fuck.”

 

“Don’t make me wake her up, Anders.”

 

“Templars and your bloody supernatural hearing,” the mage grumbles, his legs stuttering underneath him as he falls to sit on the next bed instead. “Where am I?”

 

“Skyhold. I take it you know where that is? I’m sure Corypheus must’ve enlightened you.”

 

This takes minutes to sink in. Cullen says nothing; he runs his hand over Hawke’s hair and watches a thousand emotions war on Anders’s face.

 

“Did...did he make it out, with…”

 

“No.”

 

“I wanted this for years, you know. I really did. I didn’t just lie about it. It wasn’t just a - a ploy. I wanted it to be quiet. To just be me again.” Anders buries his face in his hands, shaking. “Not like this.”

 

“When has anything ever happened like we wanted it to?”

 

Anders laughs, the sound half a sob. “I remember one or two times.”

 

“I’m going to wake her up now,” Cullen says, shifting the blanket. “She’ll kill the both of us if I don’t.”

 

It doesn’t take long to stir Hawke awake - she comes to quickly, with the readiness of someone who’s spent most of her life in danger. Her eyes flicker over the room; Anders’s bed is empty.

 

“What -” she begins, trying to leap out of Cullen’s lap and getting caught in both his arms and the blankets. “Where is -”

 

“I’m here, love.”

 

Hawke freezes, one hand trapped in a blanket, the other gripping Cullen’s forearm so hard her knuckles turn white. For a moment, it’s like the last four - five - years didn’t happen, and they’re back in their bedroom in Kirkwall.

 

But just for a moment.

 

She disentangles herself and begins checking him over, because being a healer is easy than being an estranged lover sat in a far less estranged lover’s lap. Anders flinches when her hands touch his skin, but quickly says, “Fuck, Hawke, you’re cold.”

 

When she presses her ear to his chest to listen to his breathing, he brushes feather-light fingertips over her hair, making her shiver.

 

“Why would you do this to me?” His voice is a whisper, but she knows Cullen hears it too, because his chair creaks with his movement. “You know what it’s like, not being alone. Why would you take that from me.”

 

Hawke sits back on her heels, her hair flicking forward into her eyes as it catches on his hand. “Anders,” she says, “to save your life, I would’ve destroyed Justice myself.”

 

This time, his flinch away from her is real.

 

“You’re still a mess. I don’t want you in here without a healer.” She stands up and steps away from him, resolutely not looking back at his face. “I’ll get you a different one. If - if you want.”

 

Anders nods; Hawke’s heart breaks.

 

She runs from the room before Cullen can stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: You're great.


	3. Halamshiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a party, and Absolutely Nothing Goes Wrong.

“Well,” Hawke says, arms folded across her chest - that way, it will be harder for them to see her trembling hands. “Go on, then.”

 

“Inquisitor?”

 

Hawke sighs. “Josephine, you look like you’re about to explode with questions. Leliana, don’t think I don’t know what your plotting face looks like by now. Cassandra, you still haven’t worked out whether you want to draw your sword or not. Can I recommend not?”

 

“You can hardly blame us, Inquisitor,” Josephine says politely, eyeing Cassandra with something between concern and suspicion. “We are doing everything that we can to work with what has happened, but I cannot claim it is what we expected - first with the Templar alliance, and now this.”

 

“If I’m honest,” Hawke says, shifting to lean her folded arms on the war table, “I’ve never been good at delivering to expectations.”

 

Leliana smiles unsettlingly. “Perhaps we could begin with where the Commander is.”

 

“Here.” Cullen closes the door behind him, stalking into position between Hawke and Cassandra. Turning, he murmurs, “Dorian is with him, though why you picked the Tevinter I’ve no idea.”

 

“You do remember what putting Merrill and Anders in the same place is like?”

 

“Ah.”

 

Shifting again, Hawke grits her teeth and turns to the others. “I meant it, you know. All the questions, the plans, whatever punches you want to throw. Do it. Or we’ll never get through this - and right now, I need to think about....”

 

_ Something that is not what I did to Justice. _

 

“...how we get through this.”

 

Blessedly, Josephine lifts her clipboard and consults a list. Because of course she’s made a list of the problems Hawke has caused. 

 

“There are several issues at present. The acquisition of the Grey Wardens has offered us some prestige, especially in Ferelden, but it has also undermined our standing overall in light of their actions. Leliana and I are doing what we can to spread the word of Corypheus’s involvement, and to impress upon everyone that those who remain are the ones who were unwilling to take part. That said, it will put us at a disadvantage politically for some time.”

 

“A disadvantage that will not be helped if we lie to our own people!” Cassandra snaps, her voice cracking through the room. Not a word of it is directed at Hawke; she wishes it was, though. “What were you  _ thinking?” _

 

Cullen’s eyes flicker over to Hawke, then down, as he leans his own hands on the edge of the table. “I wasn’t.”

 

“Commander -” Cassandra begins, her face softening. “Inquisitor, there is something you must know.”

 

“It isn’t that,” Cullen interjects, inhaling sharply. “But - she already knows, Cassandra. I assume that Leliana does as well, as I doubt I’ve overestimated her skill. Josephine - you should be aware that I no longer take lyrium. Cassandra is watching to ensure that I do not...lose myself in the process.”

 

Josephine barely has a moment to crease her face in concern before Cassandra cries, “Such as telling a mob that a guilty man is innocent!”

 

“An action that he claims is not due to his withdrawal,” Leliana points out smoothly, and without any hint of surprise. “So. What is it?”

 

Hawke laughs, hoarsely and a little rudely. “Like you don’t know that as well.”

 

“I am not omniscient, Inquisitor. But it hardly takes a genius to deduce what is happening. Or did you think no one would notice that the two of you stayed with him, alone? You, of course, are known to have a connection to him. Cullen is not.”

 

“Maker’s breath. You want to know why? To protect him. I did it to protect him. And yes, Cassandra, I know that I lied. I know that I have wronged the memories of those I knew, that I respected, that  _ he _ killed. But do not think, not for a second, that I enjoyed doing so.”

 

Cassandra stares at him, mouth parted in surprise. “Why? Why would  _ you  _ protect him? You were there, you know what he did, what -”

 

“Because I love him!”

 

_ That can’t be what he said. No, I’m imagining things. I’m still asleep. I did not just hear him say that. There is no circumstance in which Cullen would tell anyone that.  _

 

_ He never even told  _ **_me_ ** _ that.  _

 

_ Maker. How much did you change without me noticing? _

 

“Varric...Varric never mentioned…”

 

“Varric didn’t know everything,” Hawke says, astonished at the steadiness, the casualness of her voice. “Just...most of it. Besides, do you really think Varric was going to go into the intricacies of everyone’s love lives whilst you were holding him prisoner?”

 

Leliana smiles thinly. “He was very explicit about your brother’s failure to lure Merrill.”

 

“That’s because my brother couldn’t flirt with his own reflection and it’s bloody hilarious.” Hawke sighs again. “We’re getting off topic. The topic being what the fuck, Cullen?”

 

He has the decency to look sheepish, at least, rubbing at the back of his neck in the way she’s always been unable to look away from. “There is nothing -  _ nothing  _ \- more important than dealing with the threat of Corypheus. We cannot allow the truth to undo the Inquisition - and - and Josephine and Leliana cannot protect us from that truth if they do not know it.”

 

Raising an eyebrow, Josephine observes, “It would seem our lectures have had more of an effect than I thought.”

 

“You know I always listen to you,” Cullen grumbles. “I just don’t like most of what you say. There’s a difference.”

 

“So,” Cassandra says, her anger still present in her voice. “There is to be truth, then? Let there be truth.”

 

They’ve trapped her, of course. Because now Hawke has to explain everything - otherwise Cullen’s relationship with Anders is going to make no sense to them. And, as much as she hates it, he’s right. Josephine’s right. So, taking a deep breath, Hawke stands up straight and folds her arms.

 

“Anders and I were already together when we met Cullen. Or re-met, in Anders’s case…”

 

She doesn’t tell them everything - but even enough is a lot.

 

Cassandra looks like she doesn’t know whether to be delighted or affronted, Josephine absorbs it all without any hint of trouble, and Leliana’s face takes on an expression that looks suspiciously like she’s filing the information away for later use.

 

But, in a strange way...it makes Hawke feel better.

 

\---

 

The next place she goes is to Bethany’s side, which feels wrong. Bethany should be first. But if Corypheus destroys the world, then she won’t have kept Bethany safe. Serving the Inquisition -  _ running _ the Inquisition, which still hasn’t quite clicked into her mind - is serving Bethany.

 

Within half an hour of her arriving, Bethany has thrown a tantrum bad enough to set fire to the bedsheets. The ice that she summons in a panic burns Bethany’s skin, and then they are both sobbing, Hawke clutching her daughter in her arms as healing flows through her fingertips.

 

“It’s okay,” Hawke murmurs, over and over again, unsure whether it’s to Bethany or to herself. “It’s okay.”

 

_ Mother was so much better at this. Maker, she even put up with having twins. I wish she was here. I wish she was here so very, very much. _

 

Compassion’s voice rings soft and gentle in her mind.

 

_ Those who leave us are always where in our memories, little bird. _

 

Smiling into Bethany’s hair, Hawke settles the two of them down on the burned bedsheets. “Hey,” she says, cupping Bethany’s face. “Do you want to hear a story about your grandmother?”

 

Bethany nods, her cheeks bright red with the remains of her tantrum.

 

“When I was twelve, I took your aunt and uncle climbing in the woods. We weren’t allowed to go very far from the house, but we were never very good at doing what we were told…”

 

She might not be as good at telling stories as Varric is, but it’ll do. For now, it’ll do.

 

\---

 

“I cannot stand a moment of this any longer,” Dorian pronounces, hands planted upon his hips. “If I have to sit through one more minute of that man explaining the depths of my lack of healing knowledge - of which I might point out I am well aware - I am liable to execute him to display the many things of which I  _ am  _ capable.”

 

“There’s no one else, Dorian.”

 

He moves round in front of her, leaning his hands on the library table and forcing himself into her field of view. “Look,” he says, his voice a lot more gentle than his posture. “I appreciate that what happened between the two of you is complicated. But if he is to remain here, you are going to have to resolve it one way or the other.”

 

Sighing, Hawke closes her book. It isn’t helping, anyway - there’s nothing in there about spirit possession at all, let alone a possessed person having a child. Because of course there isn’t. It’s not exactly common. People who are possessed are destroyed as abominations, not left around to procreate.

 

“Fine,” she says, standing and brushing her hair out of her face. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”

 

It’s hard not to divert from the bottom of the stairs towards the battlements, but taking Cullen with her isn’t going to help anything. They’ve barely spoken, and certainly not in private. She’s not even got any idea what they  _ are _ anymore.

 

_ Did I ever have an idea? _

 

Not to mention that she knows he  _ has  _ been to see Anders, and so she’s also got no idea what  _ their  _ relationship is like. That - that feels even stranger. If they’d gotten one thing right, it was talking. They’d always known what one another was thinking, what they were and weren’t happy with, and whether anyone was feeling things they shouldn’t do. 

 

Of course, she’d also only ever said  _ I love you _ to Anders, and Cullen never said it at all -

 

... _ had _ never said it.

 

To her.

 

Gritting her teeth, Hawke tries not to think about all the things she doesn’t know anymore, and ascends the tower. Recruits stumble to salute her as she passes, and she does her best to smile at them, which from the panicked looks on their faces isn’t terribly well.

 

“If that’s lunch, I’m not hungry,” Anders says as she’s halfway up the stairs - she’s made no effort to hide her footfalls. “You can just - oh. It’s you.”

 

Before he can protest, Hawke places herself in a nearby chair, arms folded. “Dorian Pavus is an exceptionally skilled mage,” she says firmly, “and does not deserve to be ridiculed.”

 

Anders glowers. “He’s a pompous ass who wouldn’t know shit about healing if you squeezed it out and threw it at him.”

 

“If you wanted a better healer, maybe you shouldn’t have fired your last one.”

 

“My last healer,” Anders says quietly, looking away from her, “killed my best friend.”

 

Hawke isn’t sure if she’s just getting used to being punched in the chest by things he says now, or if she’s actually starting to come to terms with Justice’s fate. Either way, she only flinches a little, this time.

 

“Yes, I did. And I deserve anything, everything you have to say about it.” She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees. Truth, Cullen had said. The truth would get them through this. “It won’t make me regret it, but I deserve it anyway.”

 

Something deflates in him, and he sits down - not on the chair next to her, but a few seats away. “You know what it’s like - having them there. You know. And you still did this.”

 

Hawke runs her thumb over her arm, as if tracing the aura there. “I can’t have her near me when I manipulate rifts,” she says. “It tears her apart. Every single time, I have to push her away.”

 

“But she isn’t  _ gone, _ ” Anders snaps. He runs his hand over his head. “Sometimes when I wake up it feels like - like he’s just gone to the back of my mind, and a moment later he’ll be there. But then I try to do something, help someone, and I…can’t.”

 

“It’s not just losing him that hurts,” Hawke realises aloud, her eyes widening as she looks at him. “It’s not being able to heal?”

 

“This is everything that I am. Everything. And now…”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He bites his lip. “I know.”

 

“I can’t undo it. I wouldn’t if I could.” She takes a deep breath and waits until the moment that he looks back at her. “But I will do anything to help you get it back. I might not be as good as you, but…”

 

His laughter interrupts her. “You’re better. You always were. No, don’t look at me like that. Justice could do it, but it was only a part of him. It’s everything Compassion is. You’ve always been better.”

 

She isn’t quite sure what to say to that.

 

“I’m having trouble accessing my magic,” he says into the silence, standing up, as if the admission makes him restless. “I had auras raised when it - when he - in the Fade. I think -”

 

“You’ve lost access to that portion of your power,” Hawke finishes, standing up and unfolding her arms. She’s halfway towards him before she catches herself, pausing. “Can I…”

 

He nods, but reaches out when her hands are close to touching him, grabbing her by the wrists. “You are the only person who can fix this,” he says flatly, his grip tight. “That is the only reason you are here.”

 

That - that hurts.

 

“Okay,” she lies.

 

They spend the next few hours working out how to fix the block on his power. Sometimes, just for a moment, it feels like before - like the hours they’d spent talking about magic together. 

 

Hawke finds the solution in the palm of her left hand; Anders stares intently at the mark as she uses it to open his connection to the Fade, claiming back what he’s lost.

 

\---

 

The next days are taken up by Josephine trying desperately to get in contact with the Empress, to warn her about the impending attack. Hawke loses herself in tasks, travelling to close rifts, to destroy even more red lyrium, and to deal with some arsehole nobles for Sera. 

 

When they get back from dealing with Lord whatever-his-name-was, Hawke finds Cassandra standing on the stairs with an unusual expression - hesitation. It reminds her of Fenris. He’d never wanted her help, had forced himself to ask for it long after they’d already taken care of the things worrying Merrill, and Anders, and even Isabela.

 

They find nothing good in Caer Oswin. Only truth, painful and hard.

 

Something deep inside Cassandra breaks, but Hawke can barely bring herself to help. All she can see is Karl’s blank, expressionless face. All she can feel is Anders’s grief, powerful enough to count for them both.

 

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra says, when the secrets of her Order lie between them like a dead weight. “I cannot imagine what you must think of me.”

 

“Of you?”

 

One hand closing into a fist over the book, Cassandra sighs. “All of the things that I have done in the name of Truth, thinking myself righteous. Things that were built upon a - a foundation of lies!”

 

Hawke takes a slow, deep breath, and stands up. She lifts her chair, ignoring the tension that runs through Cassandra’s posture, and sits down next to her instead. Then, palm up, she holds out her hand.

 

“What is this?”

 

“This,” Hawke says, pushing her hand forward, “is a truce. I forgive you, Cassandra. I forgive you for what you did to Varric, and I forgive you for all the times you’ve been an arse, and I definitely forgive you for being deceived by people more powerful than you.”

 

_ I am so proud of you, little bird. _

 

Cassandra’s eyebrows raise so much that they look liable to leap from her forehead, but she reaches forward and takes Hawke’s hand nonetheless.

 

“Inquisitor -”

 

“Hawke. My name is Hawke.”

 

Something in Cassandra’s face softens, and she grips Hawke’s hand tightly before letting it go. “Hawke, then. I do not know what to do. With this.”

 

They turn the pages of the book together. The worst part, Hawke thinks, is not the creation of the rite. It’s that the Seekers have always known how to fix it.  _ Forever solely ours to keep,  _ the book said.

 

“Faith,” Hawke says, her fingers brushing the page. “The spirit that took Justinia’s form was one of Faith.”

 

This makes Cassandra smile, ever so slightly. “I do not know what she would think of this. I fear she would feel the same shame that I do.”

 

“Be ashamed for the Order, Cassandra. Don’t be ashamed for yourself. You didn’t know. Maker, only your leaders ever have. Blame _ them _ . It is their fault. Then decide what you do next.”

 

“I had thought to rebuild the Order once victory was ours,” Cassandra sighs. “Now I’m not certain it deserves to be rebuilt.”

 

Closing her eyes, Hawke thinks of Karl again. Of the moment Anders killed him, to free him. If they’d know - Andraste, he could have lived. He could still be alive.

 

“If you leave the Order, Cassandra, who will free all of the Tranquil?”

 

It isn’t that simple. Some of them really are more dangerous - to themselves and to others. That’s the tragedy of magic. But most of them, Hawke would wager, shouldn’t be. The ones who have been made tranquil by Templar abuses, by people like Meredith. The ones whose freedom was stolen.

 

But Cassandra gets that, because she nods, that determined knot forming in her brow. “We right the wrongs of our leaders,” she says, smiling grimly. “Yes. This, I can do.”

 

“I’ll help.”

 

“You will?”

 

Hawke smiles, and places a hand on Cassandra’s pauldron. “I might have moved up to saving the entire world now, but most of my life has been spent trying to save mages, you know.”

 

Chuckling, they return to scouring the book for anything that might have been missed.

 

\---

 

It isn’t the end to helping her friends. Dorian is next - because she owes him after exposing him to Anders, if nothing else - and there’s no question that she’s going to show him the letter Mother Giselle “kindly” tries to hide from him.

 

He offers to go by himself, but Hawke isn’t leaving him alone to face his father’s people. Or his father himself, as it turns out.

 

When they come back from Redcliffe, the two of them get so drunk the world starts blurring. Hawke drags a hiccupping Dorian up to her room before he can vomit all over the library. It’s difficult to get them both to drink water when she can’t walk in a straight line and can barely see, but she manages it. They fall asleep in a pile of limbs on the bed.

 

Of course, this results in Mother Giselle coming to have a word with her about how it looks to have a Tevinter mage showing undue influence on the leader of the Inquisition. Smiling, Hawke points out that she’s an apostate famous for starting the mage rebellion alongside her Chantry-destroying lover, and things can’t really get much worse from there.

 

It’s a convincing argument, if a crude one.

 

Even still, she makes a point of going to the shrine to Andraste that week. She spends time talking to Roderick - who is still an arse, if a grateful one - and makes sure she’s seen doing it. She even tends the plants in the courtyard for good measure, just to make it really clear that she’s not an entirely evil monster.

 

She also does her best not to notice that, every evening, Cullen walks from his office to the tower where Anders still lives.

 

\---

 

It’s three whole weeks before Varric boots her out of the room with instructions to: “Go and talk to Curly before I shove this arrow up your ass.”

 

She manages to make an absolutely necessary diversion via checking in on Blackwall - they did just recover another relic of the Wardens, it’s only fair - but as she’s leaving, Merrill catches her before she can find another reason to procrastinate.

 

“Oh, no,” she says, wagging her finger in a way that somehow manages to be menacing. “I know that look. Your brother does it too, when he’s trying to wriggle away from things.”

 

“I just don’t think it needs to be now,” Hawke protests, desperately searching her mind for the things people have asked her to do. “Leliana has reports -”

 

“Hawke. You’re being ridiculous.”

 

She sighs. “I know.”

 

“Do you love him or not?”

 

She doesn’t answer that. She never told Cullen, and it feels like she ought to say it to him before she says it to anyone else. But she does walk up the stairs when Merrill leads her that way, and she does go to his door and knock with only a moment more hesitation.

 

As she steps inside, Hawke feels the elf’s eyes boring into her spine, as if daring her from twenty feet away not to walk into the room.

 

“Hi,” she says, a little helplessly.

 

“Hawke! I wasn’t, ah. Just a moment, I was working on...this can wait.”

 

Hawke closes the door, and Merrill’s pointed stare, behind her.

 

The speed with which Cullen puts down his quill and clipboard and scurries to his feet is almost endearing. Even still, she finds herself watching him as a healer as much as anything - but his hands aren’t shaking, and he’s moving normally. It must be a good day.

 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she says, then smiles with one side of her mouth. “Though I suspect it’s impossible not to, lately.”

 

He rubs at the back of his neck. “The Wardens have taken a lot of settling.”

 

“For everyone. I don’t know how Josephine’s managed it on top of everything.”

 

“The woman works magic we mere mortals cannot comprehend.”

 

Hawke laughs softly, coming to stand a few feet in front of him. She takes a deep breath. “I, ah - I’m not here to talk about work.”

 

“I was worried that might be the case,” Cullen admits, sighing. “I should have come and found you myself. This is - not what I intended.”

 

“We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we.”

 

“We’ve always been a bit of a mess, Hawke.”

 

She smiles slightly. “Yes, we have.”

 

“This - nothing can happen, now,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. Hawke barely has a moment to process them before Cullen continues. “Not never. It’s just - Corypheus, and Bethany, and now Anders -”

 

“I know,” she says tightly, forcing out, “at Adamant, that was...more about him.” That isn’t a lie, at least. “I got carried away.”

 

“We both did.” Just for a moment, Cullen’s mouth curls into a smirk. “I don’t regret it.”

 

“But it can’t happen again.”

 

“Not now.”

 

Hawke nods, her eyes darting, looking anywhere but at him. “I preferred it when we didn’t have to be responsible,” she says helplessly.

 

The press of his lips against hers is unexpected, but Hawke responds almost on instinct, sending her hands up to run through his hair, her body pressing against cold, hard metal. They never used to kiss desperately; now it seems to be all they know how to do.

 

If they could just stay here - just stay in this moment where Cullen is managing to make his gloves touch her cheek as light as a feather, where she can feel his lips warm and pulled between hers, where the stupid fur of his cloak is crushed beneath her grip. If they could just stay here, she might manage to be happy, even with just the two of them.

 

They can’t.

 

“So did I,” Cullen growls, before stepping away. He catches her hands in his own and disentangles them, holding her fingers for a moment before letting go. “We fix the world, Hawke. We destroy Corypheus.” His knuckles brush over her cheek, golden eyes locked with hers. “After that, maybe...maybe we don’t have to be responsible anymore.”

 

\---

 

“So,” Varric says, four hours into the  _ let’s get Hawke so drunk that she forgets she kind of just got dumped  _ session, “are we hiding Bethany from Blondie?”

 

“He’s not allowed out of the tower.”

 

“For now. Sooner or later, Curly’s gonna decide that he’s allowed to. Or one of the templars is going to mention the Inquisitor’s magical kid.”

 

A spike of panic surges in Hawke’s chest. “They haven’t -”

 

“Not yet. You’re good, Hawke. I’ve got people in there.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got people in there.”

 

“Ah, I’ve got people everywhere. Question stands, though. Are we hiding her? Cause we can totally do that, if you want.”

 

“We’re - no. No, Varric, she’s his daughter. I can’t.”

 

“Well, then. Don’t you maybe think you ought to. You know. Tell him?”

 

Hawke flops back in the chair, sprawling, her head tilted back to look at the ceiling. The icy wind from outside hits her, washing in from the balcony. It might be all that’s keeping her awake - her tolerance for wine isn’t what it used to be.

 

“I’m not doing it whilst I’m drunk,” she says, the statement coming out a little less firm and a little more petulant than she intended.

 

Varric kicks her in the shin. “I’m demanding, not stupid.”

 

“I remember you being quite generous, actually. Insistent, even, that I do nothing but lie there.”

 

“I see we’ve reached the  _ ready to talk about that time I bedded you _ stage of drunkenness, Waffles.”

 

“You did not bed me. Your hand did. Also your mouth. Where’s Merrill, anyway?” Hawke slurs.

 

Varric gestures with the wine bottle. “Tavern. With the Chargers. Think Crem’s taken a shine to her.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Should I be offended that you went straight from thinking of my mouth to thinking of Merrill?”

 

“Complimented, actually. The one time I heard her and Carver - which was disgusting, by the way - he seemed quite profuse in his approval. Why d’you think I asked her for help first?”

 

“Give me that bottle,” Varric grumbles, reaching out to grab it from her. “I’m not drunk enough to talk about Junior’s sex life.”

 

“He’s  _ my _ brother.”

 

“Waffles, Carver is a professional younger brother. He’s everyone’s brother. Trust me, I would know.”

 

\---

 

The invitation to the Winter Palace’s upcoming ball is as ostentatious as Hawke expects Orlais to be. She isn’t delighted by it - clearly, she’s being used as a very powerful pawn. But it gets them in, and means they might stop another entire kingdom from dissolving into chaos at Corypheus’s hands. If that means she’s got to smile at a Grand Duke who wants to use her for his own political whims, she’ll grin and bear it.

 

If anything, she’s more worried by the fact that the advisors’ meeting ends with Josephine and Leliana proverbially locking themselves in an office and plotting. As she makes her way out of the central building, Hawke swears she hears someone mutter the words  _ fabric swatches. _

 

Maker’s breath, this is going to be awful.

 

In a strange way, it’s almost a relief to turn into the infirmary and find Anders standing there, walking through the beds with the chief surgeon. Because this, now, is something she can’t ignore - Anders is out of the tower, and that means no putting things off. Bethany needs her not to. She can do this.

 

“Inquisitor,” the surgeon says with a bow as she approaches. “Did you need something?”

 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t walk up to people who are clearly talking,” Anders points out, folding his arms across his chest.

 

The surgeon frowns. “Well, there’s nothing to be done now until we’ve gotten you the right clothes and supplies. I’ll go see what I can get put aside. Will you be needing somewhere to stay, as well? We’ve a few beds left.”

 

“No,” Anders says, his face softening. “Thank you, Daelia.”

 

“You’re going to be helping her?” Hawke asks, when the surgeon has gone. “That’s - that’s good.”

 

Anders glares at her. “Spare me your pity, love.”

 

_ Deep breath, little bird. _

 

“I need to show you something.” Looking around, Hawke gestures back towards the main building. “In here.”

 

“What is it?”

 

His voice has softened - there must be something showing in her expression. Ah, no. It’s the sparks that are trailing from her fingertips again. She was never like this before she had Bethany.

 

Hawke looks at the floor. “Something you’ll find out about quickly otherwise, and I’d rather be the one to tell you. Just…come with me? Trust me?”

 

“Fine.”

 

They aren’t silent as they walk up the stairs into the main building - it’s impossible for Hawke to walk around Skyhold silently, with the number of people who want to say hello. Or thank her. Or bow, which involves her telling them to get up,  _ please _ .

 

But when they get into her tower, things go quiet so abruptly that it feels like the silence is pressing on her - so, slowly and haltingly, Hawke begins to speak.

 

“Do you remember what the Nightmare said to me? In the Fade?”

 

“A little,” Anders says, hand tracing the banister. “It didn’t make sense.”

 

Hawke nods. “He was talking about Bethany.”

 

“Your sister? The one who died before you got to Kirkwall.”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re making even less sense,” Anders sighs, as they make it up to the top corridor.

 

Turning, Hawke looks back down the stairs.  _ Worst case, I can just jump off here. _ “Not my sister Bethany. My daughter. Our daughter. Her name is Bethany.”

 

Hands grab her roughly and turn her round, pressing her against the banister. Is Anders going to throw her off? No. No, he wouldn’t do that. But his hands are gripping her so hard that she can feel a tingle in her wrists, and his face is red with anger.

 

“You’re lying,” he says in a hoarse hiss.

 

“She’s in the room at the end of the hall,” Hawke replies, not moving. “If you don’t believe me...you can go and see her.”

 

“She’s…” Anders stumbles backwards, his hands falling away from her arms. “How old is she?”

 

“Nearly four.” Laughter spills from Hawke’s lips. “Not that you can tell. She never bothered crawling, just walked. She speaks Elvhen about as well as she does anything else. I think she can read a little, too.”

 

“The Nightmare said the Breach changed her,” Anders says after a pause, staring at the door to Hawke’s rooms.

 

Biting her lip, Hawke says, “Her magic.”

 

“She’s a mage?”

 

The hope in his voice hurts in a strange, piercing way. “Yes.” Deep breaths. “Anders, she’s more powerful than either of us. She’s - special. Far closer to the Fade than a normal mage.”

 

He frowns; he understands that double-edged sword. “Like a Dreamer?”

 

“Maybe. Merrill doesn’t think it’s that. Bethany - everything she does is whilst she’s awake. And she doesn’t intend any of it. It just happens when she’s upset.”

 

Anders nods, tearing his gaze away from the door and looking back at her. In the scheme of things, Hawke supposes, finding out that your daughter exists probably overshadows finding out that she’s a mage. “Does she know who I am?”

 

“Yes, and no. Varric’s talked about you a little, in stories. But she doesn’t know you’re her father. She knows her father is a mage, and a healer like me. That he has a spirit, too, and that’s part of the reason she’s like she is.”

 

“Wait,” Anders says, stepping forward as if to grab hold of her again. His hand stops halfway outstretched to her, hanging limply. “She’s not actually - that’s not - she can’t be -”

 

Hawke smiles sadly, looking down at his hand. “I am known for managing very unlikely things.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

_ Agreed. _

 

“Has Cullen seen her?”

 

The image of Bethany, wrapped in a snow-flecked blanket, cradled in Cullen’s arms flickers across Hawke’s mind. “Yes. Yes, he knows. She likes him almost as much as she likes Varric, or Merrill. They saved my life.”

 

This makes Anders frown deeply, but whatever he thinks to say in reply gets caught in his parted lips.

 

“You don’t have to go in. Not if you want to. I don’t...expect anything. I know things are so very different, and we’re not...but she’s there, Anders. She’s there, and I won’t keep you from each other, no matter what you think of me.”

 

They look at each other for a long moment before he says, “I want to.”

 

\---

 

“Hawke!” Merrill calls cheerily as the door opens. “I thought you were going to be gone all - ooh.”

 

“Mama!”

 

Stepping into the room, Hawke scoops Bethany up into her arms and smiles. Even the figure looming behind her can’t dampen the feeling of joy every time she comes in the room and Bethany is here - safe, alive and happy.

 

“Whozat?”

 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “How about you try that again, missy, without slurring.”

 

“Who iiiiiis that?” Bethany drawls, waving one pudgy hand in Anders’s direction.

 

Glancing over at him then for the first time, Hawke realises that Anders looks - well, paralysed. Shocked. Frozen. He’s staring at Bethany without any expression at all, as if he were too confused to manifest one.

 

“This is Anders,” Hawke says, when his lips fail to move.

 

Bethany coos. “From Uncle Varric’s stories! With the cats!”

 

“The stray ones,” explains Merrill when Anders just looks even more confused. “You remember, the ones you used to leave milk for at the clinic, whose fleas got into so many patients we had to lure them back out into Darktown.”

 

“Ah,” Anders says, nodding. “That was sad. But then, they were no Sir Pounce-a-Lot.”

 

“Who’s that?” Bethany asks, much better this time.

 

“My best cat,” replies Anders solemnly, taking a few steps forward. “The Hero of Ferelden gave him to me.”

 

“Mama, you’re a hero. Why haven’t you given him a cat?”

 

Anders laughs. “Who do you think lured the first stray one in? That was your mother.”

 

“You kept insisting I was a dog person and therefore inferior,” Hawke scoffs, placing Bethany back down as she starts to wriggle. “I had to defend myself.”

 

“I am very pleased to meet you,” pronounces Bethany, taking the last few steps over to Anders and offering him her hand.

 

A knot tightens in Hawke’s throat, and she squeezes the slender, elven fingers that lace into hers. Next to each other, you can see it, how similar the two of them are. She can do this. She can do this. Even if she’d rather be fighting a hundred abominations.

 

“Me too,” Anders says, taking Bethany’s hand. “I’m pretty great.”

 

As Bethany giggles, Hawke takes a deep breath. “Bethany?”

 

“Mama?”

 

_ I love you, little bird. I believe in you. _

 

“Anders here is a healer, just like me. He’s about to start working in the infirmary. And he’s a Grey Warden too, just like Uncle Carver.”

 

Bethany turns to Anders and beams brilliantly. “And Daddy!” she announces.

 

“Bethany?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Letting go of Merrill’s hand, Hawke kneels down in front of her daughter, until the two of them are at eye level with one another. She reaches out and brushes a stray curl out of Bethany’s eyes, and takes another deep breath.

 

“This  _ is _ your Daddy, Bethy.”

 

Unblinking, Hawke watches every inch of the reaction wash its way over Bethany’s face. From the widening of her eyes, to the gasped parting of her lips, to the grin that washes over those same features in reverse.

 

Bethany bounces then, up and down on the spot, and surges forwards to hug Hawke - but barely stays there for a moment before she turns and looks up at Anders. He’s kneeling too now, slumped slightly to the side as if his legs have just given out.

 

“Hello,” he says softly. Anders holds out his arms, barely lifting them before Bethany has launched herself into them, and if Hawke had any hesitation, any at all, then it dies the moment that Anders dispels the sparks in Bethany’s wake without thinking.

 

\---

 

Being as she is, Bethany promptly wants to spend every waking moment with her newly discovered father - but they manage to explain to her that he needs to work, too. And in the few days that pass, with tentative meetings where Hawke and Anders do their best only to talk about Bethany, Hawke sees him change.

 

Whether it’s Bethany, or Cullen, or the work he’s now doing in the infirmary, Hawke isn’t sure. Whatever it is, it smoothes the rough edges from his grief.

 

Of course, in the rare moments they are alone, it’s still only a few seconds before one of them snaps at the other.

 

Still. It’s progress.

 

Progress that is also being made towards attending the Winter Palace. Josephine and Leliana have not, it seems, been slacking - as if either of them knows the meaning of the word. Two days after the invitation arrives, a servant appears in Hawke’s chambers to take her measurements. 

 

It’s not the first time she’s been properly fitted for clothes, of course. She’s not worn the clothing taken off her victims for her entire life. But the number of measurements the elf takes is - alarming. What in Andraste’s name do they need her precise wrist circumference for? Or her  _ ankles?  _ Why is the length of her collarbones relevant?

 

It’s not just measurements, either - it’s sketches of her body, evidently a reference for whoever will be selecting the outfit she’s to wear. Those they take with her only in her underclothes, which is an experience she isn’t particularly keen to repeat anytime soon.

 

“You must know what they’re up to,” Hawke says to Cullen, two hours later when she’s finally escaped. 

 

They’ve bumped into each other on the bridge between Leliana’s aerie and his office. It’s definitely accidental. She definitely doesn’t walk this way more than necessary just on the off-chance that he might be there.

 

He grimaces deeply, looking out over Skyhold from their vantage point. “They promised me it would be nothing Orlesian.”

 

“That doesn’t cut out a lot of the worst things. I don’t even know how you get into some Ferelden dresses.”

 

“Hawke, the armour you wore in Kirkwall had twenty-seven buckles.”

 

Grinning, Hawke leans on the wall next to him. “You counted! How sweet.”

 

“It was infuriating.” His smirk is visible even from the side - but disappears the moment he clears his throat. “I heard a rumour it might be some kind of uniform. Make us stand as a united front against the Orlesians.”

 

One week later, Hawke discovers that Cullen was - fortunately for him - correct.

 

Unfortunately for her, he was also completely wrong.

 

The expression on Josephine’s face as the servants carry in sample gown after sample gown is both endearing and horrifying all at once. She’s insisted on there being champagne, and a bloody audience, as if Hawke were being fitted for wedding dresses rather than a ballgown.

 

_ Note to self: in the extraordinarily unlikely event that you ever get married, do not let Josephine plan your wedding. _

 

“I do not see why  _ we  _ are forced to be here,” Cassandra says, folding her arms and sitting awkwardly in the armchair by the fire. “What assistance can we possibly offer?”

 

“Opinions, Cassandra!” cries Leliana in delight, perching on the arm of the Seeker’s chair. “And...one or two of them might require a strong hand to help get the Inquisitor in.”

 

Hawke rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Great.”

 

“Come now, Inquisitor. When is the last time that you were able to relax and enjoy yourself?” Josephine smiles again, an expression that Hawke cannot bring herself to return - the Ambassador is holding a practically translucent silk dress in her arms. “Let us find the fun in these trials where we can. Now. Off with that armour!”

 

By the third dress - which appears to be made more of feathers than anything else - Hawke has given up on champagne glasses in favour of swigging wholesale from the bottle. Merrill and Leliana are sprawled out over the bed, sorting through the selection with a series of high-pitched cooes, whilst Cassandra glowers at them from her seat.

 

It is, however, very much Josephine’s show. Until the fifth dress, that is, when a knock at the door precedes Dorian’s entry.

 

“Ambassador! How neglectful of you not to invite the most fashionable person in Skyhold.” He breezes past, plucking a champagne glass from the side, and raises his eyebrows at Hawke. “Lace? Really? How terribly gauche.”

 

There is a brief moment where Hawke worries that Josephine might throw her clipboard at him - then the Ambassador smiles, her eyes gleaming. “Very well, Lord Pavus. What would you dress the Inquisitor in?”

 

“First,” Dorian says, sipping his champagne and making a beeline for the bed, “stop putting her in red that bright. It makes her look like a dowager.”

 

“The Inquisition uniforms are re-”

 

“Indeed, and I am certain that will suit all of our wide variety of complexions. It does not suit the Inquisitor. Hand me that one there. No, not the whole thing, just the bodice. Now…”

 

It isn’t actually one gown that Dorian puts her into - it’s several. He slices the top from one and the skirts from another, the train from a third, and does it so fast that Hawke loses track of what he’s doing. The only thing she manages to realise, with great relief, is that he’s thrown every single corset into the corner as if banishing them.

 

_ There is a Maker, and he may be a Tevinter necromancer. I don’t remember that being in the Chant, but I’ll take it. _

 

Every piece is a different colour, but however it comes out pleases the room - even Cassandra admits, begrudgingly, that it, “At least looks like she’s in charge of something.”

 

After they’re all gone, Hawke realises they never let her see herself in a mirror.

 

\---

 

Unfortunately, it appears that Josephine isn’t done with shocking requests. She calls a meeting in the war room the next day, one that contains a few more people than just the normal council.

 

“I would like Warden Anders to accompany us to Halamshiral, Inquisitor.”

 

“That,” Hawke pronounces, arms folded, “is the stupidest idea I have ever heard. I’m sorry, Josie, but it is.”

 

She looks to her side, expecting agreement - but Anders has tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes. Not in accusation; in thought. “Why?”

 

“You’re not seriously considering this,” Cullen says, frowning at him.  _ Good. At least one person here has some sense. _

 

“I’m a fireball waiting to explode,” Anders points out, leaning against the corner of the war table. “Which I suspect everyone here is well aware of. Which means there’s a reason you want to make things explode.”

 

Josephine smiles kindly. “I would not say it in such words, Warden, but you are not incorrect. In Orlais, the unexpected is - weaponised, you might say. You are most certainly unexpected.”

 

“It is also an opportunity to repair the reputation of the Wardens,” Leliana interjects - because of course she’s in on it too. “Let them see a man, a Grey Warden, who was possessed and survived. Who is free, and safe, and welcome in the Empress’s court.”

 

“And who is there as a member of the Inquisition, of course,” Anders remarks, halfway between wry and sullen.

 

“Precisely,” replies Josephine. “It will mend so many reputations at once, if it is done correctly.”

 

At that, Hawke raises an eyebrow. “What does correctly look like?”

 

“The most important thing is that you are seen,” Josephine explains, turning back to Anders. “Though of course, to be charming and polite would not go amiss.”

 

_ Maker’s breath, this is going to be terrible. Does she not realise we can barely speak to each other without exploding unless Bethany’s there? And she is  _ **_definitely_ ** _ not coming to the Winter Palace. _

 

“I can manage that,” Anders says, before glancing sideways at Cullen. “What?”

 

Cullen reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

 

“Dancing would also be useful, if you know how to,” Leliana says, a little too lightly as she looks between the two of them. Neither of them seems to notice her glance; Hawke does.

 

“We could have lessons!” Josephine suggests, clapping her freehand onto her clipboard. “Inquisitor, you would find them useful as well, I’m sure.”

 

She danced with Anders once, at a party Varric’s merchant contacts threw. By the end of it, they were in a dark alcove and she mostly wasn’t wearing her dress anymore. This is probably, Hawke suspects, not the sort of dancing Josephine is referring to.

 

_ And that definitely wouldn’t happen now. _

 

Hawke stares at her. “I take what I said earlier back.  _ That _ is the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

 

“I happen to be quite good at dancing,” Anders grumbles, looking affronted. “Which you know!”

 

“That is not what -” Frustrated, Hawke lets out a huff of breath halfway to a groan. “You are certain, absolutely certain, that this will help the Inquisition?”

 

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

 

The fact that both Leliana and Josephine say that together, in perfect tandem, is more than a little unsettling.

 

“Fine. We’re done here.”

 

Two minutes later Hawke has made it, breathlessly, to the top of the outer wall. Snow is falling gently on the stone; she pulls off her gloves and places her hands into it, as if the icy chill might shake her from being -

 

_ You are not a terrible person, little bird. _

 

“I’m not someone I recognise, either,” Hawke sighs, curling up in the corner and packing snowballs in her now bare hands.

 

_ Is it wrong to feel bitterness when someone you love hates you for saving their life? _

 

Hawke sighs. “No, but it’s definitely wrong to take it out on every bloody person I come across.”

 

_ Perhaps. But we cannot always stop ourselves from failing. We can only try to do better. _

 

“Fine. I’ll - I’ll try.”

 

\---

She does try. Just not very well.

 

“Look,” Hawke says, when the three of them are standing in Cullen’s office, staring at the situation as if it might light on fire at any moment, “this isn’t the only time we’re going to have to be around one another, so we need to sort it out.”

 

“You mean like now,” Anders remarks drily, “in the room that you summoned us to with your almighty Inquisitorial powers.”

 

Cullen sighs. “Anders, you’re not helping.”

 

“On the contrary, the Ambassador seems to think I’m very helpful. Isn’t it so useful that half the world wants to kill me and the other half thinks I’m pitiful?”

 

This is already getting out of control.

 

“I mean that we’re going to have to work together, and if we continue to do that whilst snapping at each other, it’s never going to work.”

 

Anders points at each of them.  _ “You  _ have to work together. I don’t even have to stay here.”

 

“No! You don’t. So don’t come to the Winter Palace,” Hawke says, throwing up her hands. Andraste’s breeches, she used to like his sense of humour.

 

“Your Ambassador said -”

 

“I don’t give a flying fuck what Josie said, I’m the Inquisitor.”

 

“That is enough,” Cullen snaps, physically stepping between them. Hawke hasn’t even realised she’s been stepping closer to Anders with every raise of her voice. “Anders, she’s right. If this continues to happen, especially in front of people, it will undermine both of us.”

 

“Exactly,” Hawke sighs.

 

But Cullen turns on her then, just as angry - if not even a little moreso. “And you, stop - all of this. It isn’t you. You’re better than this, Marian.”

 

Hawke breathes in. Out. He’s right. She promised to try. This was supposed to be trying.

 

And he’s using his Commander voice, which makes it doubly hard to protest. “I’m - sorry. This really isn’t why I asked you to come here. It is, but -”

 

“You didn’t mean to start it shouting?” Anders replies, before sighing in Cullen’s direction. “I get it. I’m not here to ruin your Inquisition. I’m not even here by choice.”

 

“Yes, you are,” says Cullen. “I told you. If you want to leave, you can. If you want to stay, there’s a place here, as long as you want.”

 

There is a small, almost missable gesture that Cullen makes with the hand behind his back - it’s in the direction of the ladder up to his ridiculous excuse for a bedroom.

 

Well.

 

That confirms  _ that  _ suspicion.

 

Anders says something, but Hawke doesn’t hear it over the realisation that she’s  _ jealous.  _ But they were never that. It wasn’t how they worked. She’d never even felt it when they were in Kirkwall, not even when she’d gotten home and found them together already, not even on the nights where she just went and slept in the guest room so they could be together alone.

 

Now...now it’s different. Now she doesn’t have either of them.

 

“It’s fine,” she says, interrupting. “I’ll stop being antagonising. Then it won’t be a problem. Anders isn’t going to leave, because the surgeons think he’s the best assistant they’ve ever had, Bethany talks about him constantly, and  _ you  _ need someone with you to keep you sane.”

 

_ So much for not being antagonising. And trying. _

 

“Marian…”

 

“It’s fine,” Hawke says again, because maybe if she says it enough times then it’ll become true. “It’s better this way. For Bethany. I’ll - see you tomorrow.”

 

She doesn’t quite run out of the room, but it’s a close thing.

 

\---

 

By the end of the next week, Hawke remains completely and utterly unprepared for an Orlesian ball.

 

Not for everyone’s lack of trying. There have been dancing lessons, etiquette lessons, lessons in how to spot the servant with the best canapes, quizzes on the layout of the Winter Palace, and more arguments over what Hawke’s going to do with her hair than she can keep track of.

 

In the end she steals a pair of scissors from Anders’s surgery bag, and hands them to Merrill.

 

“I want my old hair back.”

 

“Ooh, you do? I remember how to do it, at least I think I do. But why now?”

 

Hawke pulls the leather thonging out of her ponytail and rolls her eyes. “It’s the only way to shut them up.”

 

When she appears for her final dress fitting, Josephine is not amused. Dorian, on the other hand, proclaims that it will only add to her dramatic flair. Despite her best attempts, Hawke does not manage to avoid the intense look that Cullen gives her the first time he sees her back to her old self.

 

Leaving Bethany is harder this time, because it’s not just her leaving - it’s Anders too, and Cullen, who Bethany hasn’t quite come to refer to as  _ Uncle Cullen _ , but it’s a close run thing. She makes them - and Varric and Cole - promise to look after each other. Little finger locked with her daughter’s, Hawke does her best not to cry.

 

This is why. This is why she’s doing all of this.

 

It’s a slow journey with the number of people they’re taking, but Hawke does her best to pass the time. She and Varric ride with Iron Bull for a long time, listening as he alternates between telling more acceptable stories and trying to corrupt Cole with the lewder ones.

 

Hawke keeps an eye on Cole as they travel - his hands keep straying to the amulet at his neck, but it looks like he’s reaching for it out of comfort rather than fear. She’s glad it arrived in time. He’s been pretending to be strong, for her - for Bethany - but inside he’s been anything but.

 

The first night they make camp, Hawke tosses and turns on her bed for an hour before realising that she doesn’t know how to sleep alone anymore. She sneaks her way through the camp into the tent where Varric is sleeping and curls up against him, closing her eyes to breathe in comfort.

 

He doesn’t even wake up, and his snores lull her eventually to sleep.

 

In the morning, Sera follows them around, poking them with arrows and waving jars of bees at them until they eventually explain that yes, they do mostly sleep in the same bed and no, that doesn’t mean what she thinks and no, Hawke didn’t sleep with every single person she knew in Kirkwall.

 

Just the ones she probably shouldn’t have.

 

\---

 

Sera gets bored eventually, but Varric comes to Hawke’s tent the next night just to save them the trouble. It smells, like everyone in camp does now, of horses and sweat. Even the remaining smell of the stew they had for dinner is drowned out by the stench of it.

 

“Hey, Waffles,” Varric says hesitantly, pulling at the buttons on his shirt. “You know which tent Blondie’s sleeping in?”

 

“Probably Cullen’s.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I saw him going over there and wasn’t sure if I should be bracing for impact.”

 

Hawke hurls her left boot off a little too roughly. “I already worked it out.” The other boot refuses to budge as she pushes it. “It’s fine.”

 

“Really,” Varric smirks, coming round to stand in front of her. “Definitely looks it.”

 

_ “Varric.” _

 

He pushes her hands out of the way and undoes the laces enough to get the boot off without effort, placing it to the side with the other one. Then, resting back on his haunches and looking at her, Varric says, “You wanna talk about it?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Do you  _ need  _ to talk about it?”

 

A pause. “Nope.”

 

“Look, Hawke, whatever it is you need me to do, you know I’m here.”

 

Quietly, insidiously, an idea creeps into her brain. Hawke braces herself to disapprove of her own thoughts, and then realises that actually...she doesn’t feel weird about the idea at all. Huh. 

 

Tongue catching her lips, she flicks her blue eyes up to catch Varric’s brown ones.

 

He raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

 

“I haven’t even said anything,” Hawke protests.

 

“You don’t need to,” replies Varric, standing up and planting his hands on his hips. “That’s your sex face. You just made your sex face at me.”

 

Sighing heavily, Hawke flops backwards onto the bed, arms resting above her head. “Sometimes, Varric, I think the world would be much simpler if it was just the two of us.”

 

“Hawke, I don’t like humans and you only lust after emotionally fucked up men with great hair.”

 

“One day,” Hawke says, turning her head to look at him, “you’re going to stop using  _ I don’t like humans  _ as a cover for  _ I’m not capable of loving anyone other than Bianca Davri.” _

 

Varric’s mouth drops open.

 

“Andraste’s tits, Hawke, how’d you find out her name?”

 

Hawke grins. “I’m that good. Also, there’s a letter from her on your desk.”

 

“Well.” He runs his hand over his head. “Shit.”

 

“Apparently she gets here the day after we get back. That’s going to be interesting. I might even manage not to throw lightning at her. Now are you going to fuck me or not?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You heard me,” Hawke says, some of her frustrated bravado faltering. “Look, if you don’t want to, fine. I’m just -”

 

“Thinking about your ex-boyfriends fucking three tents over.”

 

“Thanks for putting it so kindly. Hey, at least you know I wouldn’t be thinking about you.”

 

The bed shifts as Varric lies on it, its creaking accompanied by his wry laughter. “You’ve never had a dirty thought about me in your life.”

 

“I actually haven’t,” Hawke realises aloud, turning again to look at him. “That might be why this isn’t weird.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“So why does it feel like I have to bully you into it?”

 

Shifting closer, Varric reaches out and brushes her fringe out of her eyes. “You’re in charge of a thousand people,” he says, thumb stroking her cheek. “Your daughter is a weird prodigy, a Magister we killed is alive and trying to destroy the world, let’s not even get into the matter of those two assholes you’re in love with, and you’re  _ dying,  _ Hawke. You’re not exactly primed to make good decisions.”

 

“That’s...fair. But Varric, this isn’t me making a bad decision, this is just - I would like to not feel like complete arse. Just for a little while.”

 

He smirks. “I know.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yeah, Waffles,” Varric says, trailing his hand down her throat, between her collarbones, into the fabric of her flimsy nightshirt. “I do.”

 

His touch is gentle, a contrast to the rough skin of his hands. Hawke quickly pulls one of her hands down to cover her mouth, because if he continues to brush his fingertips over her breasts like that then she’s going to wake the whole camp up.

 

Maybe she should. Maybe she should let Cullen and Anders hear them from three tents over.

 

Varric’s hand finds the hem of her nightshirt and, just like she wanted, Hawke forgets how to form coherent thoughts - even jealous ones. He doesn’t kiss her, and pulls away when she tries to touch him in return - “That’s not how we work, Hawke.” - but he buries his head between her legs and makes her bite down on her hand within seconds.

 

She doesn’t think about Varric. She thinks about long, slow nights in Kirkwall, watching the two men that she couldn’t admit she loved.

 

\---

 

The temporarily erected mirror in Hawke’s tent reflects her fully adorned self with stark, overwhelming clarity.

 

She’s never put much thought into her appearance. It’s not generally worth it, when you’re so often covered in blood. And when you’re on the run, it’s hardly your first concern, unless it’s  _ do I have enough dry clothing to look decent? _

 

This is...different.

 

Dorian’s gown design has been made in blue - deep, dark blue, like Grey Warden armour - with blood red accents that remind her of Templar sashes. This, she suspects, is deliberate on several levels.

 

From the front, the effect is imposing. The matte material crosses over in a high-necked fashion, and the shape of the bodice is tight, given structure by the stiffness of the material rather than by a corset of any kind. At the hips, the underskirt splays out slightly - at least it allows her to walk without looking like a waddling duck.

 

Turning, Hawke observes the other side of the gown - the dramatic side, Dorian called it. Well, he had said something more like, “Business from the front, pleasure from the back,” but she’d suspected he was making an innuendo as much as a comment on his fashion design.

 

She’ll concede it’s definitely dramatic, though.

 

The back is entirely cut open, and at the base of it dips into an ever-so-slight v-shape. Where that point rests at the very base of her spine, the train splays out, an overlayer of skirt that only comes round to the sides of her hips. It creates a far wider, more Orlesian silhouette from the front, and trails behind her like a carpet, displaying every inch of its blood red brocade pattern.

 

Her makeup is equally intense thanks to Josephine’s servants, the blue of her eyes stark against the dark, smoky paint on her eyes. They’ve done something terrifyingly skilled with powder that has made her cheekbones look like they’re leaping out of her face, and her lips are such a convincing shade of blood red that she keeps wanting to wipe them clean.

 

No, she’s never been concerned about her appearance before - but looking like this, Hawke feels like she could take on the world.

 

The tent flap flutters, and Hawke turns to look over her shoulder.

 

“Darling,” Dorian says, spreading his arms wide and grinning. “You’re almost enough to change a man’s mind about his entire life. Come along - the Ambassador is getting twitchy.”

 

That feeling of power becomes a lot more tentative as soon as they move out of the tent and towards the gathering point. Butterflies take up residence in her stomach and, quickly, Hawke finds herself utterly unable to think of the things she’s supposed to be focused on.

 

Then they step over the crest of the hill to where everyone else is waiting.

 

“Holy shit, Hawke,” Varric says, running one hand over his hair. His eyes look her up and down shamelessly, a gesture backed up by his wry grin. “Not bad.”

 

On reflection, it’s no wonder that no one has ever worked out the  _ occasionally with benefits  _ part of their relationship - Varric flirts with her so openly and constantly that it seems the unlikeliest truth.

 

“Inquisitor!” cries Josephine, breaking away from the huddle of advisors - and, Hawke realises with another flutter of butterflies, Anders. “You look perfect!”

 

“I look weaponised,” Hawke manages to reply wryly, though her eyes have moved - they’re on the gap between Anders lips and the quiet, intense look Cullen is giving her through his eyelashes. “Or armoured, at the very least.”

 

“If you don’t mind being stabbed in the kidneys,” Sera grins, affecting a ridiculous bow. The bright red uniform doesn’t suit her. “Figured you would mind, though, so I had my friends stash everyone’s armour inside.”

 

“We shall be fashionably late, Inquisitor, if we enter now,” Josephine instructs, and the real work begins.

 

\---

 

To say that they cause a stir when they enter the Winter Palace would be to compare a spark to a bonfire. Whispers meet Hawke from the front, and gasps follow her from behind - she is, she notices quickly, the only person remotely dressed like this.

 

Which was probably Dorian’s precise intention.

 

The Grand Duke is a pompous arse, but he’s striking - not in appearance, but in bearing. Hawke’s met plenty of nobles, and plenty of them didn’t have the first idea how to hold themselves. Gaspard does, and he knows it too.

 

The whispers grow stronger as they walk, arm in arm, into the Winter Palace. She can’t see the others but knows they’re behind her - the entire room is parting to let the Inquisition surge through as a single, armoured unit.

 

It makes that feeling of power come back, just a little.

 

Loosing her arm, Gaspard makes a grand deal of his descent down the stairs as he’s announced, waving his hands and bowing deeply to the Empress. Her own entrance is much more understated, but no less dramatic - just as Josephine instructed, Hawke keeps her face plain and walks down the stairs, allowing her train and entourage to give her her own drama.

 

She pauses, as Gaspard did, at the midpoint on the stairs.

 

_ Here we go. _

 

“And accompanying him, Lady Inquisitor Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, daughter of Leandra Amell of the Free Marches.”

 

Hawke bows and begins to walk forward, because  _ surely _ this is all they have to say about her, but no - the announcer continues.

 

“...shepherd and leash of the wayward Order of Templars, purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful, Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself!”

 

Behind her, Hawke hears Varric mutter, “Seriously? You can’t be a Champion twice.”

 

_ If you start calling me Champion Champion, Varric, I swear I will tie ribbons onto Bianca’s handle. _

 

The others get equally intense treatments - Cassandra actually heckles hers, Iron Bull grins, and Solas gets introduced as her  _ servant _ of all things. Who Sera had to bribe to get  _ that _ put on the list Hawke isn’t sure, but it definitely wasn’t Josephine’s doing, because the huff of fury from beside her is audible.

 

They’ve left Anders until last - which means she can’t see his face as the announcer reads his, much starker announcement: “And lastly, Senior Warden Anders of the Grey Wardens, formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi.”

 

Just behind her shoulder, Hawke hears Cullen mutter, “He’s going to hate that.”

 

_ The Circle reference, or the fact that Stroud apparently had him promoted without telling him? _

 

As the Empress greets them, Hawke looks around at the onlookers. The excited expressions have turned slightly wary, but soften as Hawke gives the polite responses to the Empress’s greeting. Josephine had been quite clear that she was  _ not  _ to open with  _ someone is here to kill you,  _ as much as it was tempting to.

 

Dismissed, Hawke gets off the dance floor quickly, before she can be accosted by the nobility now veering towards her.

 

\---

 

“Something is afoot here,” Leliana tells her, when Hawke finds her leaning casually against the wall around the ballroom. “We must find out what.”

 

An advisor for the occult and Ambassador Briala acting suspiciously. Right. That’s not much of a start, but it’s something.

 

Dressed as she is, Hawke finds it surprisingly easy to make her way around the party. Fashion is paramount here, after all, so people know to move for dresses with wide trains. The stares she gets are as varied as the guests, however - she does her best to avoid the ones that look judgemental.

 

She pauses often to talk to the other members of the Inquisition, who have - at Leliana and Cullen’s insistence - been scattered through the party so that they always have eyes on her at all times. 

 

The evidence, if you can call it that, is at once easy to find and not at all easy to find. Really, leaving your blackmail around for everyone to discover? It’s a bit careless. Still, she’s not going to complain. It’s making her job much easier, after all.

 

That is, until she makes it out into the gardens.

 

“I’ve got a problem,” she says, placing a hand on Dorian’s arm.

 

He sighs deeply and solemnly. “You do. They’ve cut it much too wide. The dress I made showed off the side of your breasts spectacularly.”

 

“...Dorian.”

 

“What? Oh, you’re being serious. How boring. Well go on then, what is it?”

 

Standing next to him as if observing the fountain, Hawke points out the problem: the library is locked. There’s a way in, but - well, she’s not managing that in this dress. As she explains, Dorian’s face turns from disappointed to grim to aghast.

 

“Darling,” he says, patting her hand, “I am extraordinarily fond of you, but I am not climbing a trellis for you.”

 

Hawke is just about to offer her most convincing argument - that she’ll owe him a favour - when there is a small, gentle tap on her shoulder. She turns to see Cole, unnervingly hatless, standing beside her as if he’s always been there.

 

...which he has, because Cullen insisted.

 

“They’ll all forget I went up there,” Cole says, his watery eyes gleaming.

 

Grinning, Hawke tells him exactly what to look for.

 

Once he’s off and climbing, Hawke meanders back through the party, emphatically sympathising with the Court of Heralds Vassal - Phillipe probably is a jerk, after all - making small talk with Duke Germain, and eavesdropping on some of Briala’s elves and a group of dwarves whilst she’s at it.

 

By the time she’s circled around to the library entrance and taken the letter from Cole, the bell is ringing to call them back to the ballroom. At the second bell - Josephine was specific about that - Hawke approaches the large doors alone.

 

“Well, well, well,” comes a voice from behind her, complete with ominously clicking heels. “The leader of the new Inquisition.”

 

This, Hawke realises quickly, from the prick of Compassion’s aura on her skin, is Celene’s occult advisor. She eyes the woman’s dress, which casts almost as dramatic a silhouette as her own does.

 

“I,” the woman says, sauntering past her, “am Morrigon. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene.”

 

And she knows exactly where Hawke - and her people - have been. Which means, Hawke notes, that she can remember Cole too. But that thought passes quickly, as their conversation turns from niceties to the matter of Tevinter, and things are all business.

 

Fortunately, the seamstresses tucked some very small pockets into the waist of Hawke’s dress - she slips the key that Morrigan gives her into one of them, disguising it as an adjustment to the fabric.

 

“Proceed with caution, Inquisitor,” Morrigan concludes, as they walk together into the ballroom. “Enemies abound, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter.”

 

\---

 

“Dance with me,” Hawke finds herself saying, holding her hand out to the last person in Halamshiral who actually wants to dance with her. “Please?”

 

Anders’s mouth works several unspoken words, then a grim line. “Surely you’ve got better choices. Like Cullen. Or Josephine. Or the bloody Empress.”

 

“Regrettably unavailable. And you know I love dancing. I couldn’t bear another minute without being on the floor. It’s like stepping into another world, isn’t it? Nothing to be seen or heard but yourself and your partner.”

 

_ Take the bloody hint, Anders. You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t absolutely have to. Agreeing not to antagonise you only works if we don’t bloody talk to each other. _

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he says carefully, reaching out to take her hand. It’s strange, feeling his skin without the hum of Justice’s aura. “In the Circle, we always had to dance silently, or we’d get caught. I suppose here you could sing along and no one would know.”

 

Hawke lets out a relieved breath and lets him tuck her hand into the crook of his arm, leading her down the stairs towards the dance floor as if it had been his idea in the first place. It’s only when they’ve taken their places that it hits her what dancing actually involves. And what she’s wearing.

 

_ We want you to stand out, Inquisitor. Everyone’s so used to seeing you in armour, they’ll be so thrown by seeing you in a gown, Inquisitor. Having a gown with an actual back is so passé, Inquisitor. _

 

The echo of Josephine and Dorian’s voices becomes increasingly more sarcastic in her mind, then falls silent as Anders splays his hand over the small of her back and pulls her in.

 

Somehow, his fingers against her bare skin isn’t the worst of it.

 

No, the worst thing is that they’ve managed to come down during a slower dance, the kind of dance where you move as a single body. Which means that Anders has pressed her so tightly against him that the sideways glimpse of her breasts - which Dorian was so keen upon - is finally making itself known. Even Hawke has to admit it’s quite impressive.

 

Anders catches her looking as his leg slides into position between hers, their feet now entirely parallel, and snorts a laugh. “Isabella would be proud,” he murmurs, as they start to move.

 

It’s a dance she knows - thank you, parties at the Viscount’s Keep - but even still, it takes Hawke a moment to adjust to the steps. She wills herself to focus on something that is not how close they are. Like how soft the velvet of Anders’s Inquisition uniform is, or how neat the stitching is beneath her hand. Or the new scar she can feel on the side of his index finger.

 

“The longer you take to speak,” Anders says, shifting his head and grazing her cheek with his jaw, “the more I begin to worry that the Orlesian dramatic flair has gotten to you.”

 

“Did you ever meet Morrigan? With the Hero?”

 

Hawke feels rather than sees Anders’s eyebrow raise. “Nope. Never met her. More’s the pity - apparently she barely wore a thing. You’d have a lot in common.”

 

His fingers curl slightly into her skin.

 

“She’s here. She’s Celene’s occult advisor. And, for the record, she’s more clothed than I am.”

 

“Well that’s hardly difficult.” They spin, and when he catches her back against him it’s a little too rough. “You spoke to her?”

 

Turning her head as if focusing on their dancing path, Hawke explains about the Tevinter agents, and the key. “It’s got to be for the servants’ quarters,” she asserts. “The Ambassador’s agents have been disappearing.”

 

“Of course! Let’s take the most recognisable person in the entire ball and have them vanish into prohibited areas of the Palace. That won’t go badly at all.”

 

“I’ll be quick.”

 

“Hawke,” Anders says, stepping back and spinning her again. “Everyone is looking at us. Everyone. Maker, it’s like being back in Hightown. You’ll never get out without being noticed.”

 

The hundreds of enraptured faces Hawke sees blurring together as she turns make the point just as well. And she can’t send Cole again - not into a place with dangers she has no idea about.

 

“Perhaps they’re staring at you. You are, after all, the miraculously saved Grey Warden.”

 

“Oh, yes, and how I have always longed to be so favoured.” Anders sighs. “You’ll need a distraction.”

 

Bringing her lips to his ear, Hawke grins. “If only there were someone here just as famous as me. Or just as antagonising.”

 

Anders turns, his head resting against hers as they step back, two - forward, two - and there isn’t anywhere she can look except into his eyes. He’s breathing heavier than she is - the realisation gives her a small, petty burst of pride.

 

“I promise I won’t blow up the Winter Palace if you distract them for me,” she adds lightly, innocently. Anders tightens his grip so hard that this time, his fingernails dig into her bare skin. Hawke barely catches the sound that tries to gasp from her lips, biting down hard.

 

_ Andraste’s tits, think with your brain, Marian, not what’s between your legs. _

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

“More than I should.”

 

“Then pretend you don’t want me to do this.”

 

The change in his voice tells Hawke what he’s about to do before he does it, so she isn’t surprised when his lips (warm, dry, soft and hard all at once  _ Maker I missed this _ ) press against hers, his tongue lashing over her mouth. Hawke untangles their fingers as if reaching to pull him close, then pivots, sliding her arm between their bodies and twisting after it, out of his grip.

 

“Seriously?” she yells, lifting her left leg and booting him squarely into the next couple - _ thank you, Dorian, for picking a skirt with some movement. _ “After everything that’s happened, you think it will just all be alright?”

 

He rights himself, elbowing the now astonished couple in the process - two seconds of shouting and they’ve bought the entire dance to a halt. “I thought that you meant -”

 

“It isn’t the same!” Hawke hisses, in the frantic rush of someone trying to keep their voice down and failing miserably. “I tried, but it isn’t. Maker forgive me, but without him, you’re just…”

 

To anyone else it looks like the light, but Hawke knows what that glint in Anders’s eye is. It’s mischief. “Free! I’m free, Hawke, to be myself at last.”

 

“That’s just it, Anders,” Hawke says, sighing dramatically. “I’m glad you’re free. I really am. But - I guess the demon tricked me, too. I’m sorry.”

 

“What...what are you saying, love?”

 

_ Maker’s breath, Anders, you should’ve become an actor. I think I almost believed that. I suppose I ought to try harder. _

 

Casting her head to the side, Hawke looks at the people staring at them, contorting her face into horror. It isn’t hard. When she turns back to Anders, she steps forward, cupping his cheek.

 

“I don’t think I ever loved  _ you _ ,” she says, softly, into the absolute silence around them. Somewhere in the distance, a partygoer shrieks. Hawke uses it - and the stunned look on Anders’s face that may or may not be real - as her cue to turn and storm up the stairs.

 

\---

 

“Hawke,” Varric says, glancing over his shoulder. “Why is everyone whispering? I mean _more_ than usual?”

 

Summoning every shitty thing that’s ever happened to her, Hawke bursts into tears. Or, at least, she does a pretty good job of faking it. Isabella  _ would _ be proud.  “I don’t want to be here anymore,” she wails, only mildly stifling the sound with her hands.

 

Varric looks at her levelly - it’s not a good enough fakeout for him, evidently - then sighs. Too loudly, he says, “Come on. Dorian’s got some proper whisky in his coat, none of this flowery Orlesian stuff.”

 

It doesn’t take them long to gather Dorian, and Cole does his trick of just appearing somewhere along the way. With hitching breaths, Hawke sobs a desire to be somewhere quiet, and manages to get them to lead her to the Hall of Heroes.

 

“They’re all whispering your name,” Cole says quietly, when the four of them are alone. “One of the Council of Heralds gave him a handkerchief. I think he is their favourite now.”

 

“Good,” Hawke says, dabbing at her own cheeks. “Because I feel absolutely fucking ridiculous. Have you got my armour?”

 

Cole smiles, the expression just visible under the brim of his hat, and points to the door to the servants’ quarters. “From Sera. All ready for the other kind of dancing.”

 

“Would someone  _ please _ explain to me what’s going on?” Dorian sighs, as they slip through into the unmistakable stench of blood.

 

“There are Venatori here,” Hawke says succinctly, immediately diving for the bag Cole is pointing to. “Damnit, I’m going to need help, I can’t reach the buttons on - thank you. Briala’s servants are going missing, and it’s all happening in this bit of the Palace.”

 

“That doesn’t explain all the gossiping,” Varric points out, now midway through undressing her.

 

“Anders and I made a distraction.”

 

“Really? With your clothes still on?”

 

“ _ Varric _ .”

 

“She told him she never loved him,” Cole says solemnly, taking the ridiculous gown from her and folding it reverently. “That she was in love with Justice, because he had corrupted her.”

 

“That’s ridiculous.”

 

“It is,” Hawke says, smiling at Varric. “Which is precisely why everyone in the Inquisition will know it’s a distraction, and everyone in the ballroom will fawn and sigh over the poor, unloved victim.”

 

Dorian laughs. “Whilst completely ignoring where you are. Clever! Now all we need is an orgy, a bit of blood magic, and I’ll feel quite at home.”

 

“Well, I’m not sure about the orgy,” Varric says, hefting Bianca up to his shoulder. “But we’ve definitely got the blood part covered.”

 

\---

 

Two minutes into exploring the servants’ quarters, Hawke is certain of two things. One, she fucking hates Orlais. Two, she fucking hates Orlais and - you know what, three, just for good measure…

 

“I fucking hate Orlais.”

 

“This is way too obvious,” Varric remarks, pulling the Chalons dagger out of the emissary’s chest.

 

_ It was a quick death, at least, _ Compassion remarks, as they press onwards. They’ve got time, but not forever. Time that quickly gets eaten up fighting bloody Venatori, because if Orlais needed anything to improve it, it was Venatori.

 

The Harlequin is a surprise, though - and painful. The curved blade it plunges into her side sends her stumbling so much that Compassion’s power floods through her body automatically. It's a good thing she isn't wearing that ridiculous dress.

 

_ Careful, little bird. I cannot do that for you again. _

 

They fall into a defensive posture, Hawke’s back to Dorian’s, as Cole and Varric disappear and reappear around them much like the Harlequin. By the end of it, Hawke feels like her mouth is more lyrium than saliva.

 

Ambassador Briala is rather refreshing, after that. Oh, she’s sneaky, but in the comforting way that Leliana is. And for all that she’s clearly got a network of spies - and likely assassins too, given how naturally she moves with silent steps - Briala’s motivations are as plain as her methods are hidden.

 

After years of living with Merrill, and after seeing the alienages in Kirkwall, and how even the most well off elves are so much lower than everyone else...well, Hawke can hardly blame her. In a way, they have an awful lot in common. Because mages have never been considered people, either.

 

They stow their armour and weapons again and manage, with some effort, to clean themselves of Venatori blood before they return to the party.

 

\---

 

Grand Duchess Florianne, on the other hand, is someone that Hawke distrusts instantly.

 

Perhaps it’s something in her demeanour, or in the way she holds Hawke at arm’s length whilst dancing, as if to be seen with her is an affront. They gain a large audience, likely due to what happened the last time Hawke took the dancefloor - but there are no such dramatic endings this time.

 

Instead, as soon as the dance is over, Hawke gathers the others and begins, once again, the long process of changing from dress to armour. Because there is every chance that Florianne is lying to her - every chance that they are walking into a trap - but at least by walking into that trap they will finally work out what is actually going on in Halamshiral.

 

They don’t even bother with a distraction this time - Anders remains surrounded by a dozen people, including members of the Council of Heralds, all of whom are questioning him. Hawke even spots Cullen being subjected to similar treatment - though when she hears the words “eligible”, “handsome” and "proposal" she begins to pity him a little more.

 

So. All they need to do is run face first into a trap.

 

Of course, it’s not that easy.

 

First they have to deal with Briala’s little problem, and then Celene’s, both of which leave Hawke convinced that the Empress is much more the quintessential Orlesian than she’d given her credit for.

 

The old habit of breaking into everything they can find proves useful, and Dorian is only too happy to go along with it, delighting in every speck of blackmail potential they can find. It’s all as ridiculous as the next, but soon they have something on everyone, and Hawke realises that she has the power to play the Orlesian Court like a puppet.

 

It’s no wonder that people are afraid of her, really.

 

They spring Florianne’s trap and the sight of demons is almost comforting. Proof, undeniable and clear, of the last piece in the Orlesian puzzle. The Grand Duchess is clearly mad, of course, but as they stride back into the party - unharmed, with little delay, and back in their uniforms - Hawke finds that the small speck of confidence in her chest has flared to a supernova.

 

She takes the crowd’s infatuation with her and uses it to her advantage, talking Florianne out of her confrontation and forcing everyone to, for once, bloody well listen to her. After that, it’s too easy to keep wielding the puppet strings. She parades the long list of sordid truths before Gaspard, Briala and yes, even the Empress.

 

"Inquisitor," Celene observes, tilting her head to the side and holding her hands in that strange, overly posed way. "You are not what I had been led to expect."

 

Hawke pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, deeply. "I am tired. I am tired of people waging wars on one another when there is a far,  _far_ worse one out there. Do not mistake me, I will do almost anything to protect people from Corypheus - including treat all of you like the children you're being."

 

Gaspard laughs; Briala smirks. The others react in much the way Hawke expects. Josephine is surprised but pleased, Leliana is incandescent with approval, and Cullen frowns deeply.

 

By the end of it, Hawke feels more like the gods damned Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition than she’s ever felt. Maybe more than she'll ever feel again. The worst part is that she can't tell whether she's basking in the power or terrified of it. It would be better, she decides - remembering Meredith, and Orsino - if she was both.

 

\---

 

When the party has gone back into full swing - now a celebration rather than simply a gathering - Hawke watches Gaspard, Briala and Celene walk away from her as a group. She can now add blackmailer to her list of talents. Wonderful.

 

_ That is a very good thing that you did, little bird. To find accord in such disharmony. _

 

Hawke snorts a laugh.  _ You think that’s accord? _

 

_ It may be. With time. _

 

As Compassion’s voice fades from her thoughts, Hawke starts - a hand catches her arm. “What is it?” she asks, as she looks around to find Cullen there, frowning.

 

He doesn’t speak; instead, he tugs her out of the ballroom and onto the balcony, the knot in his brow not shifting for a moment. Only when they are at the edge, as far from the party as possible, does Cullen say anything at all.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Eyes flickering back to the party, Hawke replies, “I wasn’t expecting a Fade rift. That was surprising. The rest - it’s about what I expected. How are you?”

 

Cullen continues frowning. “If one more Orlesian noble compliments my appearance or asks if I'm keen to be married soon, I might punch them.” He looks towards the ballroom as well, then reaches out, taking her hand. “And that isn’t what I meant.”

 

She bites her bottom lip. “It was a distraction.”

 

“Was it?”

 

“You don’t seriously think any of that was real? Cullen, I told him I was in love with Justice. The spirit that I  _ killed.” _

 

Sighing, Cullen says, “You didn’t kill him, you just convinced - Marian, I know you. Both of you. That wasn’t just...you looked…”

 

He turns away as he trails off, rubbing his face tiredly. The uniform, Hawke notices, suits Cullen far less when his face is flushed. In the face of his near flinch, his words reach her almost belatedly.

 

“Looked what?” she asks, trying not to laugh at the realisation that they’ve fallen back into the old agreement - a question for a question.

 

The hands that wrap around her arms are so clammy she can feel it through her sleeves. “You are making it very difficult,” Cullen says, his voice as soft as his grip is tight, “to be responsible.”

 

Oh.

 

Her mind flashes back to the attention on them - because yes, she remembers seeing him now, in the crowds watching them. She remembers that Cullen’s eyes never left the two of them, not for a moment, and didn’t he always like watching them?

 

And she wants to be the responsible one, she really does, but she knows Corypheus is going to strike back at them for this, and she looks good, really good in this damn dress, and if she pauses for too long then all she can think about is Anders’s hands pulling her close to him and his nails catching in her spine.

 

So Hawke steps backwards, like she should do. She holds her hand out, like she shouldn’t do. And she says, forcing herself to hold her voice steady, “Dance with me.”

 

“Hawke, I…”

 

“Don’t dance. I know.” She pushes her hand closer. “I don’t need you to be any good at it.”

 

He frowns again, but takes her hand, cradling it in his like it’s made of glass. “Then what do you need?”

 

“To remember,” Hawke says softly, curling her left hand around the golden leather of Cullen’s shoulder. “What it was like when you both wanted me.”

 

They dance slowly, in silence, to no rhythm but the ragged draw of their breaths. Hawke closes her eyes, leans her head on Cullen’s shoulder, and lets the memory of Anders’s touch merge with the feeling of Cullen’s.

 

\---

 

“You were lying. Weren’t you?”

 

Hawke freezes, one hand on the balcony ledge. “In the ballroom?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

What Anders kicks, Hawke doesn’t see - but she hears the thud and the scattering of dust. “You never said it, Hawke. What am I supposed to think?”

 

She wants to scream at him.

 

When should she have said it? After her sister died, or after her brother left? After her mother was kidnapped, tortured and turned into an undead monstrosity? Maybe after Merrill’s entire clan had turned on her, or after Justice had threatened an innocent girl, or when Varric watched his brother go mad.

 

Maybe she should have done it the day Anders was sitting on a crate, waiting for her to execute him.

 

Maybe it was never about words.

 

“I don’t know, Anders,” she snarls, finally turning back to look at him. “Maybe think about the six bloody years I spent with you? About everything that we went through. About the fact that I didn't fucking kill you for murdering hundreds of people. Or maybe the fact that we have a child together?”

 

He stares at her as she hisses the last at him, seeming utterly frozen. Hawke doesn’t move either - she can’t, it’s like looking at something so terrible you can’t tear your eyes away. It’s Anders that breaks the stalemate, taking silent steps until he’s stood alongside her, his head tilted down.

 

“I didn’t want children,” he says, softly. “I don’t want children. You did.” He grazes the side of her arm with the back of his fingers. “I just...I didn’t want you to be alone. When I was gone.”

 

Anders walks back into the raucous celebrations, leaving Hawke frozen in place. Minutes later, her knees give out. She sits, trembling, in a pool of blue and red fabric.

 

She doesn’t bother to get back up.


	4. Corypheus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This took a little while. But it's 17,000 words long. These things may be related.
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter; the final chapter will cover the epilogue and Trespasser and all other manner of conclusions. When you get to the end of this, don't panic! There are more answers to come.
> 
> Thank you all, so much, for all your wonderful feedback. It's kept me going <3

“You are not broken,” a soft voice says. Compassion? No. That’s wrong. It’s male, and next to her, and there are hands smoothing down her hair. “Nothing they do will shatter you apart with us to hold the pieces in.”

 

“Cole?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Blinking, Hawke lifts her head and looks around herself. Balcony - she’s still on the damned balcony, in Halamshiral, with her makeup all over her cheeks and goosebumps on her arms from the chill.

 

“He lit up,” she says emptily, not moving. “When he saw her. When he knew. I don’t understand.”

 

Cole continues stroking her hair gently, softly back into place. “Truths can stand against each other but still be so,” he says, smiling sadly.

 

Piece by piece, reality begins to come back to her. The ball is still going on - the music is louder now, and the cheering, and the shrieking of laughter. It jabs into her ears painfully, sounding like Anders even though it can’t be, there aren’t hundreds of him.

 

“Also,” Cole says, frowning at her, “you took the memory of the Chantry and used it to cut him.”

 

The pain fades in the wake of the shame that floods her. “You heard that?”

 

“I was listening. Like I was asked to.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“You’re hurting,” Cole says gently, letting his hand rest at the base of her neck. “How can you hold a hundred hurts without hurling them at the hearts that wrought them?”

 

When more tears spill down her cheeks, he moves to catch them.

 

“Thank you,” she says, as Compassion’s voice in her mind whispers gentle platitudes that sound like a lullaby.

 

Smiling, Cole gets to his feet. “She has no hands, so I will be them, and bring you the things that you need.”

 

When he vanishes, Hawke feels the rest of reality come back to her in a panic - she’s on her own, they’ll be missing her in the celebrations. But no. No, everything is done. She blackmailed the leaders of Orlais into a peace accord, and now everything...

 

Maker.

 

She blackmailed the leaders of Orlais into peace.

 

For the first time, Hawke finds herself missing the days of hunting abominations and corrupted Templars. She misses the time before she was Champion of anywhere, or anything. She misses the damned Qunari. She misses that, every day, they went home to the Hanged Man and they were all just...there. Together.

 

Skyhold is like that - especially with Bethany in it - but Skyhold seems so very, very far away right now. All she has to look forward to tonight is an empty tent in the fields of a country she just played like a fucking puppet.

 

_Little bird._

 

“Don’t. Not right now.”

 

_Do you know how many lives you saved today?_

 

“No.”

 

_Neither do I. Because they are countless._

 

Angrily, Hawke pushes the fresh tears from her cheeks. “I want it to be simple again. I want it to just be that - that people matter. And nothing else.”

 

_That is still the truth, Marian. It will always be the truth. You are simply realising that this thing that matters above all else is complicated. Messy, and broken, and full of those sins that walk my world as demons._

 

“Even me,” Hawke mumbles into her hands.

 

_Yes, my beloved. Even you._

 

The rest of the tears land in her palms. Hawke cradles them in her lap as, little by little, they begin to be filled with snowflakes. Goosebumps trail every inch of her skin now, and at least half of the trembling in her body is from the cold. But Cole didn’t give her his coat, and he would have thought to do that - so, Hawke reasons, she’s fine.

 

Of course, Cole works his magic in strange ways.

 

“Maker’s breath, you’re freezing,” Cullen says as his feet come into the edge of Hawke’s vision. He drops instantly to her knees and pulls his jacket off, settling it around her shoulders. “We should get you inside.”

 

Hawke shakes her head violently, dislodging tears and snow. “They can’t see me like this, Cullen.”

 

He sets his jaw. “You’re right, of course. Blasted nobility.”

 

“They s-seemed to like you,” Hawke says limply, as Cullen sits down next to her. His arms wrap around her, pulling her in, pressing the soft lining of the uniform against her bare skin.

 

“What did he do?”

 

Lifting her head, Hawke looks for Cole - but he’s gone. Not far, in all likelihood, but it at least feels like it’s just the two of them. And, well, if she’s used to anything, it’s not being alone even when it seems like they are.

 

Why did he bring Cullen? Why not Varric? Or Dorian? Or Cassandra, even.

 

She shivers again, and Cullen’s arms tighten, pulling her fully into his lap. He’s warm. So warm, even without lyrium. “How much did Cole tell you?” she asks, weaving her fingers out of the jacket to hold onto his shirt.

 

“Nothing more than that.”

 

Tensing, Hawke explains. “He didn’t want children.”

 

“What?”

 

“He knew I wanted them. But he didn’t. He said he just didn’t want me to be alone. When he was - gone. It was all part of his plan.”

 

The words have torn themselves out of her mouth before she can think about the fact that it’s going to hurt him just as much as it does her. Cullen’s arms tighten painfully, and he growls something unintelligible into the top of her head.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, not knowing what else to do.

 

“No,” Cullen says, sighing so deeply that Hawke moves with the rise and fall of his chest. “I am the one who’s sorry. I have never wished - I have never wanted to change our past. But right now, if I could, I would go back and make myself say no.”

 

It hurts, but Hawke gets it, because if she could go back in time then she would change...a lot of things. But not Bethany. Never Bethany.

 

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

 

“Why would he even say that to you?”

 

“We were...arguing. About things I said in the ballroom. And things I never said to him.” She twists, trying to bury herself in Cullen’s arms. Her last words come out muffled. “Or you.”

 

“There are a lot of things we didn’t say to each other,” Cullen murmurs, because she doesn’t need to tell him what it was.

 

“Cullen?”

 

“...yes.”

 

“I do,” Hawke says, her voice small against the warmth of his neck. “Love you. Both of you.”

 

The chest beneath her hands shakes as Cullen chuckles. “If you didn’t,” he replies, pressing his lips into her hair, “we wouldn’t be such a mess.”

 

\---

 

The good thing about how raucous the celebrations have become is that no one notices when they sneak her out. It’s Sera who finds them a route, sending them crawling over balconies and weaving through the wings littered with Venatori corpses.

 

It reminds Hawke far, far too much of Kirkwall.

 

Especially because Cullen hasn’t let go of her since he pulled her up from the ground. No one is questioning it. None of them have ever questioned them, even before they knew enough to know there was something there. It’s taken her so long to realise it because it’s so strange.

 

Sometimes, the world feels like an entirely different one. Because she doesn’t have to sneak through the city at night. She doesn’t have to hide her magic in the day. There are no meetings in the Gallows where Cullen has to call her a filthy mage just a little too loud, so that Meredith can hear.

 

It’s like she’s a whole different person, only she still remembers those days keenly, painfully, longs for the comfort of them because at least then she knew what was right and what was wrong.

 

Now - now everything is just a mess.

 

Cullen puts her into the bed in her tent and piles blanket after blanket over her. Where he gets them all from, Hawke isn’t sure - she doesn’t notice. What she does notice is that he doesn’t stay. Instead, he sets up a watch between Varric, Cassandra and Cole, all of whom take a seat across from her like sentinels.

 

And when the morning comes, Hawke’s world becomes the Inquisitor’s world, as her people pack up to leave and she finds herself called to receive an ambassador to the Inquisition. Exhausted, she cannot even bring herself to muster more of a reaction than the rather mercenary thought that Morrigan will be a useful asset.

 

On the journey home, she resolutely avoids looking behind her; somewhere, Anders is riding with them.

 

And she can’t think about that.

 

Like always, Hawke finds that she is made of _not yet, not yet, not yet._

 

\---

 

Of course, when they get back to Skyhold, there’s no avoiding him forever. She manages it for the first few days, drawn into meetings about the fallout of their efforts in the Winter Palace. It seems universally agreed that she’s managed the best outcome - which, Hawke thinks, might be the first time anyone’s ever said that about something she’s been involved in.

 

But on the fourth day, she spots him. Briefly.

 

“What was that about?” Hawke asks, one hand resting on the frame of Cullen’s door as Anders storms down the stairs behind her. He’d barely even looked at her as he went past - which, given that they’ve taken to glaring at each other in every passing.

 

Sighing heavily, Cullen rests his arms on the desk. “You.”

 

She closes the door behind her, frowning. “I’m sorry,” she says, because it seems to be all she can say to him these days. “I know you two were - I don’t want to come between you. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

 

“Because I love him, or because I’m in withdrawal?”

 

“Cullen -”

 

“Sorry. I’m - I’m sorry.” Cullen turns away from her, one hand running over the back of his neck. “It’s not a good day.”

 

Hawke twists her lips. “Do you want me to go?”

 

There’s a pause, long enough that she starts to think she should. Then, very quietly and still facing away from her, he says, “No.”

 

She pads over to him with the sort of near-silent steps that used to be all she took in Kirkwall. Cullen still doesn’t turn, but nor does he stop her when she wraps her arms around his waist and leans her head against that ridiculous fur.

 

“I know it’s your turn for a question,” Hawke says, “but do you need me here as a healer, or as - I don’t know. Whatever we are.”

 

“My chest is tight. The shaking is - bad. Head feels like it’s splitting open. I tried fresh air but it’s too bright.”

 

She tightens her grip, holding him steady. “Did you sleep?”

 

“I...can’t.”

 

Shit.

 

“He hasn’t been sleeping in here, has he? He hasn’t been sleeping here, and you get nightmares if you sleep on your own.”

 

The silence that comes in return is more than enough of an answer. She has done this to them - it isn’t what she meant when she told Cullen that he needed Anders, but it’s true all the same.

 

Hawke decides that she no longer cares if Cullen needs a healer or just - her. Right now, he’s getting both. And his bloody Inquisitor.

 

“Sit down.”

 

“Marian, I -”

 

“That’s an order, Commander.”

 

He stiffens, but follows instruction as she lets go of him. Hawke has a brief glimpse of the pained expression on his face as she marches back over to the door; she dismisses it easily. He’s a terrible patient. There’s a runner outside - there’s always a runner outside, he never gets a damn moment without another demand coming in.

 

“Your worship?”

 

_Maker, I hate that title._

 

“Please tell Ser Barris that he’s to take over the Commander’s duties for the rest of the day.”

 

The runner nods, but frowns. “Forgive me, your worship - but is the Commander well?”

 

“He’s _tired_. Do you remember the last time the Commander took a day off, Scout?”

 

“I don’t, ser.”

 

“Neither do I. You can tell Barris that, too. He and I will be ensuring this happens more in the future. Off you go. And Scout? No one is to knock on this door. Do you understand? No one.”

 

As he scurries away in mild alarm, Hawke realises that her Inquisitor voice sounds an awful lot like Aveline’s Captain voice. Andraste’s tits, she misses that woman. Somehow, no matter what crisis you were in, Aveline made you feel like everything was going to be alright.

 

It takes fifteen minutes to get Cullen up the ladder - why is his bedroom up a fucking ladder - and out of his armour. Five of those minutes involve removing the armour, two involve getting up the ladder, and the remaining eight are taken up by a lot of glaring.

 

“Bed,” Hawke instructs, bending down to unlace her boots.

 

She doesn’t miss the way Cullen sways slightly as he steps towards it, pulling back layers of blanket and fur to climb in. It’s that fucking ladder. Dizziness is inevitable with the lack of sleep, and having to bloody climb something is only making it worse.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Cullen grumbles.

 

Tossing her boots to the side, Hawke climbs in next to him. “Yes. It is. Because most people who’re in charge of a thousand people understand that you can’t _do_ that if you don’t look after yourself first.”

 

“I have responsibilities that -”

 

“Have you ever seen Cassandra looking like shit? I don’t mean beaten up. I mean have you ever looked at her and said _‘Maker, Cassandra, I don’t think you’ve slept in days?’”_

 

The bed creaks as Hawke moves over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and resting his head against her chest. It’s probably for the best that she left her clothes on. She wants to make him sleep, not stop him.

 

“You never have,” Hawke says, before he can reply, “because she gets at least six hours of sleep a bloody night. And she isn’t in lyrium withdrawal. Now shut up and sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Hawke,” Cullen mumbles into her chest, “you’re the one talking.”

 

“Yes, well, Varric’s not here. Someone had to take over the silence.”

 

He laughs against her, the force of his breath warming her skin even through her shirt, and wraps one arm around her waist. Only when Hawke can hear his breathing still and soften does she let herself fall asleep as well.

 

\---

 

When they wake up, hours later, the sun is starting to set. Cullen’s headache is gone, so Hawke takes him out of his tower and across the bridge to see Bethany. Between the two of them - plus Merrill, who no one can say no to - they manage to get him to eat two portions of dinner.

 

By the time they’re putting Bethany to bed, Cullen’s eyes are brighter, and he’s even laughed at the broken elvhen songs she’s trying to sing him.

 

“You know it’s your parents who are supposed to sing you to sleep,” he points out, sitting down next to her.

 

Bethany grins. “Mama doesn’t sing. Mama, does Papa sing?”

 

“Only to cats,” Hawke finds herself replying, unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. “And much like them, in fact.”

 

“Will _you_ sing to me?”

 

Bethany directs the question at Cullen with such abruptness that he twitches in his seat - though that could still be the lyrium shakes. But he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say no at all. Instead, he smiles at her, and tilts his head in thought.

 

“I am not very good,” he warns her softly, “but there is one song my mother used to sing to us.”

 

Distantly, Hawke realises this is not the first time she’s heard Cullen sing. He sang when Haven was taken, when Mother Giselle coaxed everyone into singing. She was too out of it then - too cold and shaken and almost-but-not-dead - to really hear him amongst everyone else.

 

Now, she curls her knees up to her chest and watches, as enraptured as Bethany, as Cullen sings a Ferelden lullaby. Two notes in, Hawke realises she knows the melody. That she remembers mother singing it to Bethany and Carver, in the vague, formless way of having been very young.

 

She tries, really tries, not to cry. She does. But Cullen’s voice is rich and beautiful and Bethany will never get to meet her strong and courageous grandmother. Her grandmother who raised two apostates with a third - who stood tall and proud in Kirkwall even after they’d lost Father and the first Bethany.

 

Fortunately, Bethany herself doesn’t notice. Cullen does, though - and it’s only when he stops singing and reaches out to take her hand that Hawke realises Merrill has disappeared off somewhere too.

 

Cullen opens his mouth to say something, but Hawke shakes her head. She tugs on his hand, pulling him up, and leans down to tuck Bethany in. A couple of tears fall loose from her cheeks as she leans forward.

 

“You never used to cry,” Cullen says, when they’re out on the balcony. It’s dark, but the light spilling out from the room is enough to see. “In Kirkwall.”

 

“I cried once. When Mother died. I got into bed and didn’t leave for a week. I’m not sure I would have eaten anything if Anders hadn’t been there.” She looks down at their hands. “She used to sing that to us.”

 

Understanding and guilt flash across Cullen’s face. “Marian, if I’d known -”

 

“Don’t. It’s alright. It was nice. To hear it again, I mean.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, to begin with. Instead he kisses her, cupping her cheek to tilt her head upwards, his lips warm despite the cold. Then he pulls back, looking at her as if memorising her face.

 

“If I asked you to stay, tonight,” Cullen says softly, “would you?”

 

Hawke catches her bottom lip with her tongue. “Here, or -”

 

“That depends on how much my healer thinks I should be sleeping, doesn’t it?”

 

Oh dear.

 

His voice is doing that _thing_ again, the thing that she and Anders used to beg him to do, where it goes low and husky and deliberate and fuck, she is meant to be being responsible. Hawke leans closer; she tightens the fist in his shirt.

 

“This is a terrible idea,” she says, not looking away from him.

 

Cullen smirks. This would be bad enough, except he follows it with a growled, “I don’t care.”

 

\---

 

The fact that Hawke manages to keep her hands off him all the way back through Skyhold is impressive. The fact that she lets him climb up the bloody ladder in his damned office first is a fucking miracle.

 

Because despite the withdrawal and the pressure of leadership and the fact that he gets nightmares every time he sleeps alone, Cullen is somehow the most stable of all of them. And right now, in a world made of chaos, Hawke thinks that stability might just be the sexiest thing in the world.

 

...of course, it doesn’t help that he looks like he does with his shirt off.

 

Or that he knows how to do things that makes her curl her toes, like the precise amount of pressure to apply as he throws her onto the bed and pins her arms roughly above her head. Anders could never quite get it right - he was always too gentle, despite having been on the receiving end enough times.

 

“I’m not stopping you,” Hawke says, breathlessly, “but are you feeling well enough to be doing this?”

 

“Mentally, or physically?” Cullen asks, nudging her legs apart with his knee.

 

She looks at him intently. “Both.”

 

“I…” For a moment the shy, blushing Cullen that she remembers from the first time they met returns. Quietly, he manages to say, “I need to be in control of something, Hawke.”

 

“Well,” she says, laughing softly, “I need not to be.”

 

Another smirk curls over his face, highlighting the scar on his lip. He tightens his grip, and just for a moment Hawke is back in her estate in Kirkwall, seeing the crimson canopy above them and hearing Anders’s ragged breathing from the chair by the fireplace.

 

Then Cullen lifts one hand and begins to pick at the buttons on her shirt and Hawke comes straight back to reality.

 

Because he’s slow, too slow, so slow that she starts squirming and he pins her legs down with his knees. “I didn’t say you could move.”

 

“Sorry, ser,” she grumbles, flexing her fingers.

 

“If you're going to be like that,” Cullen says, leaning in and whispering in her ear, “it’s Commander.”

 

\---

 

“There is something you must see, Inquisitor.”

 

Of course, Morrigan would pick the most un-Inquisitorial moment to appear, Hawke thinks, putting the bowl of food down in front of Bethany. “I don’t suppose it can wait? At least until she’s done eating.”

 

“Hello!” Bethany chimes in, one hand firmly in her carrots.

 

Sighing, Merrill picks up the spoon and hands it to her. “No hands, lethallin, we talked about this.”

 

There’s something strange about Morrigan’s presence there, Hawke realises, and it isn’t that they’re struggling to feed a toddler whilst she stands there with intense poise. It’s the fact that Morrigan is looking fondly at Bethany.

 

_I thought she was meant to be prickly._

 

Chuckling, Compassion replies, _We all have our weaknesses, little bird._

 

“In fact,” Morrigan muses, turning to look at Merrill, “‘tis something that you would be keen to see, as well.”

 

Merrill blinks wide, glossy eyes. “Me?”

 

“You were the second to Keeper Marethari of the Sabrae clan, were you not?”

 

Instinctively, Hawke steps over to Merrill’s side, one hand ghosting towards her arm in support. It’s not her clan, and even she can see bodies littering grass and aravels whenever they’re mentioned.

 

But Merrill simply straightens, narrows her eyes at Morrigan, and says, “I was.”

 

“I have heard about you,” Morrigan smiles, folding her hands together before her. “‘Tis your work that made what I would show the Inquisitor possible at all.”

 

This makes very little sense, but - Hawke muses - it’s not going to make any more sense if she does nothing. So she pats Merrill on the shoulder, says, “I’ll get someone to look after her,” and heads out of the dining hall.

 

Of course the Templars are training today, so that’s Cullen out - Varric disappeared last night murmuring something about a letter, so he’s somewhere pretending not to be sulking. Cole would already have appeared if he was around, which only leaves…

 

“Can you take Bethany for a while?”

 

Anders looks up at her from the makeshift desk in the infirmary, quill falling limply in his hand as he drips ink onto the patient records. “Really?” he asks, his tone somewhere between sarcastic and surprised.

 

“Morrigan needs to show Merrill and I something.”

 

“Because anything she has to show the two of you is going to be perfectly safe,” Anders grumbles, blotting the dropped ink with his sleeve and resting the quill down. “I presume everyone else was busy.”

 

“No, Anders, I obviously tried the person who has no interest in this child first,” Hawke snaps, before grimacing at herself. She takes a deep breath, not needing Compassion’s instruction to do so. “Sorry. Please?”

 

Anders sweeps past her, pulling off his coat. “Don’t apologise when I deserve it, love,” he replies idly, and she follows him up to the great hall with a frown set deep in her brow.

 

\---

 

“Mythal’enaste,” Merrill gasps, clutching at Hawke’s sleeve with slender fingers so tight they pinch her skin through the fabric. “It’s an eluvian. And it’s _working._ ”

 

Morrigan smiles over her shoulder, beckoning them closer. “I went to some pains to restore this one,” she says, as Merrill charges forwards and begins tracing her fingers around the frame. “There are very few left, as you well know.”

 

It is beautiful - that Hawke can admit straight away. But what fills her heart much, much more is the rapturous look on Merrill’s face. She’s murmuring now, a stream of consciousness that seems halfway between observation and prayer.

 

Coming to a stop at Morrigan’s side, Hawke smiles at her. “Thank you,” she murmurs, softly.

 

Morrigan inclines her head.

 

“What does it do? Ooh, you must tell me!” Merrill all but squeals, not looking away from the shifting, cerulean mirror for a moment.

 

“A better question,” Morrigan replies, “would be where does it go.”

 

The sensation upon stepping through the eluvian is not unlike stepping through a waterfall - if the water were warm, and a little more cloying, thicker like some kind of sauce. Tears are in Merrill’s eyes by the time that Morrigan is explaining the Crossroads to them. The Dalish woman alternates between stumbling dreamlike over the stones around them and rushing back to clasp Hawke’s hands.

 

They’re close to the Fade - so close, achingly close, because Hawke can feel Compassion’s power enveloping her with more than its usual warmth.

 

_Is this safe, for you?_

 

Compassion laughs with such delight that Hawke feels the power ripple over her skin, giving her goosebumps. _I can hold you, little bird. I can hold you here._

 

With no hint of self-consciousness, Hawke wraps her arms around herself and holds tightly, as if she could hold the spirit again. “This isn’t the Fade,” she says aloud, looking over at Morrigan. “It’s like someone made a pocket in the side of it.”

 

“Indeed. So, were anyone to wish to break into the Fade, this would be an excellent place to do it.”

 

“Corypheus. He -”

 

“Hawke?”

 

It takes a good deal of composure for Hawke not to immediately reach for the staff strapped to her back - there’s pain in Merrill’s voice, pain like she’s not heard in a long time. But there is nothing hurting her - the elf is just knelt down next to one of the broken eluvian, her hands trembling in her lap.

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“This is - mine. My eluvian. The one that I - destroyed.”

 

With only a glance to Morrigan, Hawke rushes over and kneels down beside Merrill, wrapping her arms around her and holding her tightly. “Are you sure?”

 

Lifting one hand, Merrill traces the carvings around it. “I would know these anywhere, Hawke. I looked at them for so long.” She lifts her head and turns, looking to the woman now standing just a little way from them. “What did I miss? You must know. You have one that is working. So tell me, hahren - what was it?”

 

“Each eluvian has a key. The key is unique to the eluvian, and may be many things. I studied the pieces of your eluvian; I believe that key was all that you lacked.”

 

Merrill shudders. “And I destroyed it. I was missing one thing, and I destroyed it.”

 

“When did you study it?” Hawke says, frowning at Morrigan. “Merrill’s eluvian?”

 

“I spent much time searching for the other eluvian. ‘Tis likely that I came upon it not long after you departed Kirkwall, for I purchased the pieces that I could from an elvhen woman within the Alienage there.”

 

They rest there on the ground as Morrigan explains the other eluvian that she knows of - and the one towards which Corypheus has mustered his forces. As she speaks, Hawke can feel Merrill’s body tensing, as if preparing for something.

 

“Hawke?”

 

“Yes?”

 

The Dalish woman turns in her arms, looking at her with grim determination. “I’m coming with you.”

 

Hawke smiles and brushes Merrill’s hair back into place. “Absolutely.”

 

\---

 

They begin mustering the troops as soon as Hawke returns - though it takes some effort to calm down the advisors, who quickly begin panicking about the lack of time involved. Even rushing, it will be a day before the bulk of the army can leave. They send scouts, then call the Templars to order, and Hawke agrees to depart several days later. Her group will travel much faster than the army, after all.

 

She resolves next to speak to Solas, because as odd as he is, he knows a lot more than she’s ever forgotten about the Fade. Between him, Morrigan and Merrill, they’ll surely be able to face whatever lies within the Arbor Wilds.

 

But as soon as she gets into the great hall, Hawke freezes - because Varric is back in there, standing by his normal table, looking intently at a dwarf that she doesn’t know.

 

_Compassion?_

 

_Yes, little bird._

 

_In your expert opinion, is Varric okay?_

 

_No. No, he is not._

 

“I am the expendable one, after all,” he’s saying as she walks up.

 

“Aww, don’t worry. I’ll protect you. We’ll just have to -” The dwarf, whose voice is low and sultry in a way that sets Hawke’s jaw clenching, turns and grins at her. “Well, this is a surprise. I’ve heard all about you, Champion. Bianca Davri, at your service.”

 

It is a testament to Josephine’s training, Hawke thinks, that she does not immediately slap the grinning woman in the face.

 

“Bianca’s got a lead on where Corypheus got his red lyrium,” Varric says quickly - a little too quickly, and they both notice.

 

The details lodge into Hawke’s mind, because the words _red lyrium_ and _Bartrand_ are involved, but she spends much of the time staring at Varric. If she looks at Bianca, she reasons, her face will lodge itself fully into _get away from my best friend you fucking bitch._

 

“Someone leaked it?” Hawke asks, her brain clicking back in as she frowns. “Who? It wasn’t one of us.”

 

“Not even me,” calls a voice from the next table along - because of course Anders is listening. At least, Hawke thinks, he’s managed to clean Bethany up after her lunch.

 

“Hirelings could’ve done it. Carver. Bartrand himself, even.”

 

“It wasn’t Carver,” Hawke sighs, as Bianca says, “How they found out isn’t important. What matters is we know where they are now.”

 

It isn’t surprising that Varric told Bianca, which he must’ve done, because how else would she be here. But it grates on Hawke’s nerves all the same. They fall into discussion of the Deep Roads - and Hawke can feel Anders grumbling in the corner - until Bianca leaves.

 

“Right,” Varric says, as if nothing had happened at all. “I’m sure that’ll be no trouble at all.”

 

“Trouble!” Bethany pronounces, appearing at Anders’s side as he walks over to join them. “I’m trouble.”

 

“Yes you are,” agrees Varric, ruffling her curls.

 

“And so is your Uncle,” Hawke states, folding her arms over her chest.

 

Anders snorts a laugh. “At least she’s pretty, Varric.”

 

 _“Don’t,"_  Varric says, glowering.

 

“If we go right now, we can join up with the army afterwards. We might even make it back before we need to leave.”

 

The look Varric gives her is a mixture of exasperated and grateful. “Waffles...thanks.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Hawke sighs, reaching for Bethany’s hand, “It’s not like this is the first errand I’ve gone on for a friend. You all practically queue up.”

 

\---

 

It turns out, Hawke quickly discovers, that the only time she doesn’t like watching Varric flirt is when it’s with the woman who breaks his heart just by existing.

 

“You want me to admit you’re better than me?” he grins, as they walk into the caves together. “In front of Hawke?”

 

The only thing worse than this is listening to Bianca flirt back. No, skulking around in caves is _not_ Varric’s day-to-date life, thank you. Hawke has taken him to plenty of places that aren’t caves, and when you’ve got an army behind you there’s much less use in skulking.

 

Of course, they’ve also spent weeks in the Deep Roads together, and there was definitely a lot of skulking in Kirkwall, but that’s besides the point.

 

If Varric notices that Hawke’s spells are a little more offensive than usual when they’re fighting the smugglers, he doesn’t comment on it. Just like he doesn’t comment further on the fact that Bianca really _is_ a better shot than him.

 

And maybe she’s too suspicious, but as they go on, a few things start to not quite add up. Yes, the Merchants Guild get around and yes, a bolthole makes sense, but these doors Bianca’s made must’ve taken weeks to craft. And why here, specifically?

 

Even darkspawn and the need to search for key after cog after key doesn’t dampen the now omnipresent grumbling in Hawke’s mind. Something isn’t right, and she has to work out what it is, has to protect Varric from whatever is going on here. Because Hawke has learned that there are few things in the world that can truly break her.

 

Anything bad happening to Varric would definitely be one of them.

 

So there is no smugness, no gloating, no satisfaction at all in finding out that she’s right. That something  _is_ wrong. And it  _is_ Bianca.

 

“Andraste’s ass, Bianca,” Varric says, his face turning more furious than Hawke has seen it in a long time. “You’re the leak?”

 

Her back is to them, so whatever Bianca’s first expression is Hawke doesn’t see. But when she turns, she’s cool and composed, so much so that Hawke feels sparks leaping at her fingertips.

 

Bianca explains, but it doesn’t calm her down - even the curious part of Hawke that starts to think _but lyrium can’t be alive, what do you mean_ shuts off in the wake of Varric’s voice turning harder and angrier with everything that Bianca says.

 

“Larius,” Hawke says, her own words coming out just as hard. “You gave a key. To Larius?”

 

Varric frowns. “Wait, he was the Grey Warden we met in Corypheus’s...oh, shit.”

 

“I didn’t realise -” Bianca begins, but gets no further, because magic has flooded out of Hawke’s tensing fingertips and rushed around her ankles. The petrification creeps up her legs, up to her waist, coils all the way up to her throat.

 

“That man,” Hawke hisses, holding her arm out in front of her as the spell finishes, “was not a mage. Do you know what that means?”

 

Bianca tries to struggle, but it shows only in her face, her hood slipping as her head fails to turn. “I - don’t! Varric, stop her!”

 

But Varric doesn’t help her. He folds his arms and stares at Bianca. “He possessed him. Corypheus possessed him. Maferath’s balls, Bianca, _you_ let Corypheus out of there! I _told_ you to keep away from this!”

 

“I couldn’t - I had to fix this!”

 

“This isn’t a machine, you can’t just replace a part and get it working again,” Varric snarls, stepping forwards.

 

“But I can try,” Bianca says, now sounding almost like she’s pleading. She looks to Hawke. “Please, let me go. I didn’t mean it.”

 

“Not meaning something doesn’t absolve you of responsibility for it,” Hawke says, her voice low. “Trust me. I helped someone kill hundreds of innocent people. That’s on me - just like this is on you.”

 

“Let her go, Hawke,” Varric says, half a sigh and half a grimace. “Someone will be missing her soon.”

 

Hawke drops her hand; the spell remains. “No. We’ll go. The spell will wear off eventually. Come on, Varric.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Wait!” Bianca calls, as they’re walking away. “What if the darkspawn come back? You can’t just leave me here! Varric, don’t leave me here, come on!”

 

Neither of them say anything until they are all the way out of the caverns, back in the green of the Hinterlands, the grass soft beneath their boots in comparison to the unyielding stone of the tunnels. They step out into the light, and Hawke glances over at the broken, anguished look on Varric’s face.

 

“Go on, then,” he says, locking eyes with her. “You’ve earned it. Get it out.”

 

Hawke bends down and cups his face in her hands, thumb running over his cheekbone. “This is not your fault.”

 

“I meant the _I told you so,_ Hawke,” he says, but his eyes start gleaming.

 

“Varric,” she says again, holding him still. “This is not your fault.”

 

“I should have known. She was always - I let this happen, Hawke. I gave her the thaig. How many times have you told me to cut it off? Maker, if Cassandra hadn’t dragged me here I wouldn’t even _be_ here with you, I’d be in Kirkwall.”

 

Hawke smiles. It’s very rare that Varric is wrong. Even being wrong, he can’t do anything by half.

 

“No,” she says, brushing away the single tear that they won’t talk about. “You wouldn’t.”

 

“Shit.”

 

Varric reaches around Hawke’s waist and holds onto her, arms clenched. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything - just wraps her arms round his shoulders and pulls him in. Only when it feels like he’s finally relaxed does she say, “I’ve got bad news for you, Varric Tethras. You’ve become one of those heroes you’re always writing about.”

 

“Are there drinks at the initiation?” he laughs into her armour.

 

“For you - all of them.”

 

They pull back and walk, hand in hand, down the slope towards the road. Hawke holds Varric tightly, and after a while it becomes hard to tell that either of them is trembling at all. Just about.

 

When they’re back on the dirt track, Varric turns to her and says, “Say, Waffles.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“That spell you cast on her. Did it hurt?”

 

Hawke shakes her head. Bianca can only hurt him that much because he loves her. She would never have hurt her. “Not really.”

 

“Well,” Varric sighs, whistling for his horse. “That’s a pity.”

 

\---

 

With only two of them, the journey to and from the Hinterlands is quick - they’ll have a couple of days before they need to leave. Hawke resolves to spend them with Bianca. And, frankly, to make Varric do the same thing, especially after he turns to her and murmurs, “I think that’s it, Hawke. I don’t think I can keep up with her anymore.”

 

But things don’t go that simply, because the moment they hand their horses in at the stable, Josephine comes running up behind them, waving her hand.

 

“Inquisitor! Oh, thank Andraste you’ve made it. Are you - oh, dear, your armour is so stained. No, that won’t do at all.”

 

“Is something going on? I thought this was all just about the army leaving.”

 

“Shit, Hawke,” Varric says, pointing towards the other horses in the stable. “Look.”

 

He points, and Hawke finds herself looking at a huge stallion bedecked in livery. Fluttering from its side is a heraldic pennant - the image a shield with two mabari stood facing one another. For a moment, Hawke is transported back to Lothering, looking at her brother coming home from his conscription. She’s looking at Aveline’s armour the day they met her, and the banners that they could see tumbling amidst the army as it collapsed.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“I cannot say that I would have put it that way,” Josephine demurs with a small frown, “but certainly, his majesty’s arrival is unprecedented. He is awaiting you in the great hall - the Commander is stalling, but...”

 

“If I go through Leliana’s tower, I can get to my room without passing them. I’ll change into something...better. I’ll be as fast as I can, I promise.”

 

Josephine nods, and Hawke all but flies up the stairs to the battlements, sprinting past several alarmed looking scouts who try to salute her and then struggle not to drop their paperwork. Fortunately, they’ve cleaned themselves reasonably well - between the waterfall and the fact that you don’t let yourself walk round with darkspawn blood all over you.

 

No one is in the bedroom when she stumbles in, halfway through undoing buckles, so it’s even easier to find something acceptable. Hawke reaches for a pair of black riding trousers, a long-sleeved jerkin in brilliant white, and a clean set of boots. Someone’s been in and polished them, which normally would unsettle her - in this instance, she finds herself grateful for it.

 

She spares a moment in the mirror for her hair, which has a tendency to look like a rats nest rather than an artfully tousled mop, and then flies back through the tower so that she can enter the great hall from the front doors.

 

“Truly, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, from the steps, “you are a marvel. That or you have had a secret career in the theatre of which I am unaware.”

 

 _Try ‘secret affair with a mage and a Templar in a city where both are vilified’,_ Hawke thinks to herself, straightening up and nodding to Josephine. “The last time I met the King of Ferelden, I nearly killed the Knight-Commander in front of him,” she points out. “I’m going to fuck this up for you.”

 

“The correct term of address is ‘your majesty’. You stand when he stands, and sit when he sits. You will be fine, your worship.”

 

Unconvinced, Hawke nods, and steps into the great hall.

 

\---

 

The first thing that Hawke remembers about Alistair Theirin is that he is embarrassingly attractive. The second thing she remembers is that he perpetually gives off the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to be there at all. The third thing is new - the fact that, stood at his side, Cullen is looking at him with a strangely intense expression.

 

“Your majesty,” Hawke says, dipping into a bow that she hopes she’s made deep enough. Fortunately, Alistair is standing, so she doesn’t need to worry about whether she should have crawled her way in on her arse. “I apologise for keeping you waiting.”

 

From her left, a third voice that Hawke hasn’t paid attention to says, “Not to worry, love. We’ve all been catching up. It’s like a lovely reunion.” Anders smirks, eyes gleaming as he looks at her.

 

“If only someone had remembered to bring an Archdemon,” the King quips, before grimacing. “Oh wait! Someone did. The Magister that you set free, Champion.”

 

The fourth thing Hawke remembers about Alistair Theirin is that, despite unconventional methods, he is very, very good at politics. Fortunately, that's something they have in common.

 

“Yes, my actions released Corypheus from his prison. However, it is important to clarify that I did then kill him, and trap his remains in the Deep Roads. Unfortunately, it seems he managed to fool at least one imbecile into setting him free.” She smiles then, meeting Alistair’s eyes. “Alas, they haven’t invented a Rite of Annulment for ancient Tevinter Magisters. If there was, I’m sure you would have used it already.”

 

Raising a single golden eyebrow, Alistair remarks, “You didn’t tell me the Inquisitor had grown such sharp teeth, Cullen.”

 

_Damnit. There are a hundred things I could’ve said and I picked mentioning Kinloch bloody Hold. In front of Cullen. And I know for a fact that Theirin defended mages, fought for them. I’m the worst fucking -_

 

“With respect, your majesty,” Cullen replies, putting no respect of any sort into his tone, “you started it.”

 

The grin that Alistair gives Cullen - and the look that Cullen gives him in return - quickly distracts Hawke from her panic, and she raises her own eyebrows.

 

Right.

 

She can do unconventional far, far better than any Ferelden King.

 

Slipping past them, Hawke makes her way to her chair - she refuses to call it a throne, though in this moment she might start to - and sits down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. In the distance, she can hear Josephine choking back a gasp.

 

“Now we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way,” Hawke says, smiling warmly, “would you be so kind as to tell me why you’re in my fortress?”

 

Alistair turns to face her and, glaring, echoes her posture from a few moments ago by folding his arms. “You have an army on my borders. Tevinter Magisters took over part of my kingdom and then marched on that army of yours. And from what I understand, you all but control the Winter Palace, now. That’s before we even get into what you’ve done with the Wardens. You don’t think that’s reason enough to drop by?”

 

“The last time we met, you said I’d be welcome back home,” Hawke muses, with a small half-smile. “Changed your mind?”

 

“I was inviting the Champion of Kirkwall,” Alistair points out, “not the Inquisition. Of course, the Champion of Kirkwall then murdered hundreds of innocent people in the Kirkwall Chantry, so I think we can all agree I’ve made mistakes.”

 

Hawke taps her fingers on the arms of her throne, but doesn’t contest that. She meant what she said to Bianca; it’s as much her doing as Anders’s. Ignorance doesn’t absolve you. If it did, a lot more people would be innocent of a lot more things.

 

“Right now, that ancient Magister you mentioned - the one with an Archdemon - is marching on the Arbor Wilds, looking for something that will allow him to literally tear the world asunder.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Yes, your majesty, I have an army on your borders. Yes, I have brokered agreements with Orlais - to end their civil war, a concept with which I would hope you would be familiar. And for the record, that army that marched on mine happened because _your_ Grand Enchanter gave part of _your_ kingdom to forces working for that ancient Magister.”

 

Tensing, Alistair narrows his lips into a thin line. “Cullen.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Alistair turns to him, still glaring. “You’ve got a meeting room, I imagine? I don’t think the Inquisitor and I are going to have much of a productive conversation. And it’s your army, after all.”

 

\---

 

The door slams behind them, and Hawke flops her back against the wall of the corridor.

 

“I can’t believe I’m being shut out of my own war room,” Hawke grumbles, running her hands through her hair. “Why aren’t you in there? We’ve got Warden forces, too.”

 

Anders leans against the wall next to her, head tilted. “You’ll have to clarify, I’m losing track of your moods lately. Are you actually upset about an old boys’ club meeting?”

 

“A lot of shit has been happening to me, Anders, I've got a pretty good reason for being testy.” Hawke deflates with a sigh. “I - didn’t know they knew each other. I knew that you knew him, but...”

 

_There’s a lot about Cullen she doesn’t know, apparently._

 

“Oh,” Anders says, grinning in a way that spells trouble. “They _trained_ together.”

 

Hawke frowns at him. “What was that emphasis for?”

 

“Have you ever seen Templar training?”

 

“I have a literal fucking army of former Templars, Anders.”

 

His grin turns into a smirk. “No, no. I mean Templar school. They start giving them lyrium when they hit puberty, so their bodies get used to it.” His voice has a bitter edge, but there’s something else in it too. “Apparently it makes the process a lot more - intense.”

 

“...what?”

 

“You remember what it was like growing up with magic, right? How much...hungrier it makes you, using that much mana all the time. Lyrium does that too.”

 

She isn’t sure when Anders moved closer to her - he’s as close as can be without touching, still leaning against the wall she’s settled against. One of his arms is planted palm-down on the stone, the other hooked into his belt by the thumb.

 

Sweet Andraste, she forgot how good he smells.

 

“I suppose it’s only inevitable,” Anders murmurs, dropping his voice low, “that all that needing would get a bit too much. And who better to turn to than your training partner?”

 

“Anders…”

 

“And sure, they were probably both uncomfortable and awkward teenage boys then, but you’re not thinking about that, are you. You’re thinking about them kissing _now.”_

 

_“Anders.”_

 

She is, of course. Because it’s hard not to, the way Cullen was looking at the King, that intense glance that he normally reserves for the two of them. Maker, she’s thinking about Cullen kissing the King of fucking Ferelden.

 

Biting her lip, Hawke resolves to find a hobby. A magically increased libido is not an excuse for the ridiculousness of her brain. Even Isabela probably doesn’t think about sex this much.

 

She shouldn’t say anything - she should walk away and go and deal with the mountain of paperwork Josephine has for her. 

 

She doesn’t. 

 

Instead, she flicks her eyes up to Anders’s and asks, “How do you know?”

 

“Alistair told me. He’s the one who approved my conscription, you know. He came to Vigil’s Keep and - well, Oghren had an awful lot of whiskey, and somehow we all just ended up talking about our first kisses. Turns out his was quite spectacular.”

 

“Was it just that? Did they just -”

 

Hawke’s voice comes out breathier than she intended, and she shifts uncomfortably on the spot.

 

“Sadly,” Anders sighs, his breath tickling the side of her face. “But don’t let that stop you, love. I’ve imagined all sorts of things.”

 

“Like what?”

 

He leans closer, still not right against her, his breath hotter on her skin. “Touch yourself.”

 

“Anders, they are right there. We’re in a fucking corridor.”

 

“Do you want to me to stop talking?”

 

“...no.”

 

“Then do as you’re told, love.”

 

Hawke looks from Anders to the door and back. The door to the war room is heavy, she reasons. You’ve got to unlatch it first, and it’s loud. The other door doesn’t have that, but Anders is shielding her from the view of it, so maybe it -

 

_Oh, fuck it._

 

She slips her fingers into her trousers, biting hard on her lip as they brush between her legs. This is stupid. This doesn’t work when she does it. Just like the whole bloody rest of her life, she’s always needed someone else.

 

“I like to imagine them wrestling,” Anders says idly, his eyes fixed on her. “I’ve never seen Alistair without his shirt, but I bet he looks just as good.”

 

His voice makes it work, but it’s still not enough. Hawke slips fingers inside her cunt and rubs her thumb over her clit but fucking damnit that is just going to make things _worse._

 

“It’s raining, of course, because that way they’re glistening, and - do you remember the time Cullen turned up to the house in the pouring rain, love? His hair was such a mess.”

 

She does. She remembers it because they didn’t even let him get upstairs, no one else was in the house that day so they just pushed him down in front of the fire and Hawke doesn’t even know whether she’s remembering or imagining anymore.

 

“Eventually someone will win, of course. I like to think that it’s Cullen. That he pins Alistair down into the floor, hands above his - Hawke, love, you’re going to need to be quieter, they’re right there - and maybe they don’t even get to fucking because once they’re there and rubbing against one another it’s too much to even think about anything else.”

 

Maker, Anders is going to kill her.

 

Hawke murmurs under her breath and lights her hand up with magic, the personal barrier she and Merrill learned and though it definitely wasn’t intended for this it makes her fingertips vibrate and fucking damnit this -

 

“Shh,” Anders hisses into Hawke’s ear, still not touching her, as she chokes back a moan with a gasp. “Someone will hear you. Do you want them to find their Inquisitor writhing against the wall, sweaty and whimpering?”

 

She grits her teeth together as it hits her, jolting like electricity up her body and down her legs. In the silence broken only by her panting, Hawke can hear the sound of voices continuing from the war room, formless and indistinguishable.

 

When she takes her hand out of her trousers, Anders grabs it by the wrist, the touch so sudden that it sends an aftershock running through her body. He looks at her, staying completely still until their eyes have met.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers, before sucking her fingers clean.

 

Hawke opens her mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a small whimper. Smirking, Anders turns and walks towards the exit.

 

_Fuck._

 

\---

 

“Look - I owe you an apology.”

 

The door latches closed behind Hawke with a click, and she attempts to shut off everything that just happened in the corridor with it. It doesn’t work. She can feel the awkwardness hanging in the air like a thick fog. Fortunately, they were hardly comfortable together beforehand. If she’s lucky, Alistair just won’t notice.

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s my line,” she says, sighing and stepping further into the room. “I promise I’m...not really like this. I have had a very, very shitty day. Month. Year.”

 

Alistair smiles lopsidedly. “I can understand that pretty well, you know.”

 

“I guess you can.”

 

“I would like,” he says, glancing over at Cullen and then back to her, “to trust you. Leliana does, and Cullen does, and - well, even Morrigan does, and to tell you the truth that’s pretty impressive.”

 

Hawke nods, and comes forward to stand next to Cullen. “But you don’t.”

 

“You really did blow up a Chantry.”

 

“Anders blew up the Chantry,” Cullen states, his voice low. Hawke reaches out and places her hand on his arm. She can feel the tension in his muscles.

 

“I helped him,” she says, consolingly, before looking back at Alistair. “Give me a couple of weeks. Honestly, if we don’t make it to the Arbor Wilds in time, everything is fucked anyway -” and isn’t saying _that_ out loud reassuring - “so you might as well. Cullen can give you details of exactly where we’re marching.”

 

Cullen nods, relaxing ever so slightly. “The army has already gone, but I’ve copies of the maps.”

 

There is a long moment where Alistair considers this. Hawke spends half of the pause wondering whether he’d be a good kisser, and the other half wondering what in Andraste’s name is going on between her and Anders now.

 

She suspects that Cullen is looking at her oddly.

 

“I want notice when you’re moving through Ferelden territory.”

 

“As much as we can give,” Hawke says. “Sometimes we muster urgently. Anything else?”

 

“The Wardens. What are you planning to do with them?”

 

Hawke eyes him steadily. “Save them.”

 

The lopsided grin returns, and Alistair reaches out his hand. “Good.”

 

“You’re hearing it, aren’t you,” Hawke realises, as she reaches out to shake on the deal. “The Calling.”

 

Alistair nods. “Not as badly. But yes.”

 

“Trust me as little as you like. But believe this: I am going to kill Corypheus, your majesty. For good this time. I am going to make sure he cannot set so much as a pinky toe into the Fade.”

 

“I knew someone who talked like that,” Alistair says, his smile turning a little wistful. “You remind me of them. Thank you, Inquisitor. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to steal - ah, speak to your Nightingale before I go.”

 

“She’s all yours. But get out of my fortress before dinner, please, or Josephine will have a heart attack about the seating plan.”

 

His laughter is warm, and echoes through the corridor as he steps into it.

 

\---

 

No sooner has Alistair gone and the door closed than Cullen grabs her by the elbow and turns her towards him. For a moment, his expression looks as though he’s going to demand an explanation - then it softens, and he looks at her more intently.

 

“What is it?”

 

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

 

“Marian,” he says, letting his grip falter slightly as he runs his thumb over her sleeve, “you insulted Al - the King of Ferelden in front of a room full of people.”

 

“Oh, that,” Hawke laughs, running her hand through her hair. “Bianca Davri let Corypheus out of the Deep Roads. Varric gave her the location of Bartrand’s thaig so she could do research, and then she gave a key to the Warden that watched over Corypheus’s prison in return for information on red lyrium, only the Warden was possessed by Corypheus then.”

 

“That’s…”

 

“Why my day is going quite so terribly.”

 

Cullen presses his lips to the top of her forehead. “The last of the army is waiting on me to depart,” he says, sighing. “I could send them without me.”

 

“No. I’ll be alright, Cullen. I’m just...I’m ready for this all to be over.” Green light flickers out of the corner of her eyes. “For him to be dead,” she clarifies, rocking up to kiss him lightly. “Go. I need to check on Varric, anyway.”

 

Cullen nods, and turns for the door. “How is Bethany?” he says, hand on the handle. “I haven’t asked - I should have asked.”

 

“She’s fine. No more incidents. Cole thinks the Breach being closed is helping a lot. Cullen?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Hawke steps forward as if to follow him through the door, pausing beside him as he opens it. Reaching out, she adjusts part of the front of his armour idly. “How good a kisser was he?”

 

Cullen stares at her. “Pardon?”

 

“The King of Ferelden.”

 

An extremely satisfying flush manifests immediately on Cullen’s cheeks, flaring all the way down to his throat and out to his ears. “H-how did you…”

 

“The surgeons are travelling with the last group of soldiers,” Hawke says, leaning in and smirking at him. “Ask Anders.”

 

She walks down the corridor, boot heels clicking, leaving Cullen staring at her with his mouth hanging open. She hopes he does ask. She hopes the answer ruins him as much as it did her.

 

\---

 

When the last of the army is gone, and the King with it, Hawke finally starts preparing to travel. Which means doing something that, if she’s honest, she’s avoided for a very long time - putting Solas in the same place as Merrill.

 

Though she can hardly claim to know Solas well, Hawke likes him - he’s an expert on the Fade, friends with spirits in a way she has a kinship with, and is as protective of Cole as she is, which is all very much in his favour. But he also has a tendency to talk about the Dalish as inferior, and after he’d referred to Merrill as _that child you travel with_ once or twice, Hawke had quickly abandoned the idea of introducing them.

 

Now of course, they’ve all lived in the same place for a long time. The two of them have crossed paths, Hawke’s sure. But a part of her has also, she realises, been keeping Bethany away from Solas. Not because she’s scared of how he’ll behave towards her. Because she’s scared he might tell her exactly how bad Bethany being open to the Fade is.

 

So, being Hawke, she puts all three of them into a room at once and gets it over with in one fell swoop.

 

“I had not realised your daughter would be joining us, Inquisitor,” Solas says, tilting his head at Bethany curiously.

 

Blinking her wide, blue eyes, Bethany looks up at Solas and says, “Aneth ara, hahren.”

 

For a moment, Hawke becomes incredibly nervous - then Solas laughs, and kneels down. “Aneth ara, da’len,” he replies, inclining his head towards her. “It would seem you are quite unique.”

 

“Yes,” Bethany says, with great solemnity. “I am.”

 

Merrill steps forward, grinning impishly down at Bethany. “And I’m Merrill, of Clan Sabrae.”

 

“The clan murdered upon Sundermount, in the Free Marches.” Solas rises, tilting his head to the side and folding his hands together behind him. “An inauspicious name to claim.”

 

Hawke tenses. “Actually,” she says, frostily, “it isn’t murder if you’re defending yourself.”

 

“My apologies,” Solas says at once, bowing this time, in Merrill’s direction.

 

The Dalish woman narrows her eyes at him, one hand resting on the top of Bethany’s head. “Where I come from,” she says with a smile, “we only apologise if we actually mean it.”

 

“Would you rather that I retracted my apology?”

 

“By the Dread Wolf, no,” Merrill laughs, waving idly. “We’d be here all day. Hullo. It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard lots of good things, and also some bad ones, but those are mostly from Cassandra.”

 

“And here I had thought she and I had come to an accord.” A smirk coils its way over Solas’s lips, making his eyes gleam. “May I ask the purpose to this introduction, Inquisitor?”

 

“Well,” Hawke says, picking Bethany up and heaving her onto her hip - they’re going to have to stop doing this soon, she’s getting so big. “It would be ridiculous to go into an ancient elven temple without my experts. Which is the two of you, and Morrigan.”

 

Solas nods. “I see. And your daughter?”

 

“Is not as much of an expert on ancient elves as she pretends to be,” Hawke grins.

 

It’s a joke, but Solas seems to take it very seriously, stepping forward and locking eyes with Bethany again. “Do you pretend many things, Bethany Hawke?”

 

“Yes, hahren,” Bethany says, nodding in a bounce of curls.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like that I like carrots. Or...that Uncle Varric’s singing is nice. Or that I don’t miss Mama. Or that I can’t see all the shimmers around her.”

 

Frowning, Hawke looks down at Bethany, smoothing her hair back into place. “Shimmers?”

 

Bethany nods. “Around you. And around Auntie Merrill, and Daddy, and Uncle Dorian. You’re white shimmers, but your hand is green. Auntie Merrill is dark green like a forest, and Daddy is bright blue like your eyes, and Uncle Dorian is black and glowy like the fireplace.”

 

“What do you see around me?” Solas asks, curiously.

 

Focusing, Bethany looks at him thoughtfully. “Nothing,” she says, frowning.

 

Oddly this makes Solas smile again, nodding his head. “To see the touch of the Fade upon the waking world is a rare gift, Bethany Hawke. I hope that you are grateful to the spirit who gifted you with it.”

 

He looks at Hawke then, and something clicks in her mind. Something that had been there, almost there, for so long. Anders never lost control of his magic like Bethany does. Even when Justice changed him, it wasn’t a loss of control - it was possession, giving in. The only one of them who has ever had sparks leap out of their fingertips is her.

 

And she has a spirit, too.

 

And she never lets Compassion go if she can help it, not even when -

 

_I am sorry, little bird._

 

One hand cradling Bethany’s head, the other holding her against her side, Hawke whispers, “You lied to me.”

 

“Hawke?” Merrill says, frowning.

 

 _Sometimes,_ Compassion says, _lying is kinder._

 

“Mama?”

 

Hawke swallows. “You can see her, can’t you, Bethy? You can see Compassion.”

 

“Yep!” Bethany says, reaching out to trace where Hawke can now see the aura on her skin with her own eyes, pale and luminous.

 

“Compassion gave you this. The things you can see. It - it wasn’t your father, or his spirit. It was her.”

 

Even as something inside Hawke’s heart breaks - _I trusted you, I thought something was wrong with her, I thought I had hurt her_ \- Bethany’s face lights up with delight and she huddles closer to Hawke’s side, arms wrapping tightly around her.

 

“Oh, Hawke,” sighs Merrill, her face falling. “Ir abelas.”

 

_Tel’abelas, little bird._

 

Hawke closes her eyes. _I do speak_ some _elvhen, you know._

 

_Yes. I know._

 

Wincing, Hawke cuts the connection off. Bethany frowns, feeling - and apparently fucking _seeing_ \- the aura around her fade. “Just for now,” Hawke says, hoping Bethany doesn’t hear the cracks in her voice. “We need to get ready to go.” She looks up at Solas. “But first, I want you to tell me everything you know about these eluvian.”

 

Solas smiles thinly. “We have to leave sooner than that, Inquisitor.”

 

“Well,” Hawke says, “it’s a good thing we’ve got to travel there the slow way.”

 

\---

 

They ride hard to catch the army. Leliana’s had changes of horses put along the route, and Hawke’s grateful for it - even if the chafing on her legs is unbearable by the second day. She’s barely called Compassion back to her since…

 

Well, she’s not doing it for a bit of thigh rub, and that’s that. They’ve plenty of poultices for her to make use of.

 

Besides, the soreness isn’t anywhere near as bad as listening to the argument that Merrill, Solas and Morrigan have been having for six painful, ceaseless hours.

 

Having known Merrill for a long time, Hawke’s knowledge of elven lore is actually much better than she’d admit. But she - and Varric and Cassandra, who have moved to pointedly ride alongside her rather than team elf - got lost a very long time ago. The only thing she’s sure of is that, more often than not, Merrill and Morrigan are agreeing with each other.

 

So, at least some of her advisors are getting on.

 

To distract herself, Hawke does what she always does, and thinks about her own failures instead.

 

“Am I a terrible parent, Varric?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Hawke frowns. “I barely see her. Bethany. I’m pretty sure being present is one of the rules about being a parent.”

 

Sighing, Varric leans over and bumps Hawke on the arm with one hand. “You’re saving the world, Hawke,” he points out. “I’m not sure the rules apply to you.”

 

“You are making the world better for her,” Cassandra says with conviction.

 

“Or, you know, making sure that there’s a world at all,” Varric adds, grimacing.

 

The topics of conversation don’t get better as they approach the Arbor Wilds. By the time they’ve dismounted at the Inquisition camp, met up with the scouts and been sent on down through the valley, Hawke is frankly grateful to be fighting Corypheus’s forces.

 

“You’re very sparky today,” Varric points out as Hawke’s lightning chains its way between three bodies, leaving only the last one standing.

 

Hawke grimaces. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

 

Together they proceed to bail out the allies already engaged with both venatori and more red templars. The chevaliers seem to be doing alright, especially with Briala’s agents backing them up, and Leliana and her archers are comfortable in their high ground.

 

But then they move ahead, further into the fray, and someone calls out: “The Commander needs backup.”

 

Leaving the others behind, Hawke takes off sprinting. With a leap born more of faith than anything else, she hurls herself off a ledge and slides down it, giving her the momentum to keep going at the bottom as she runs between two well-armoured Grey Wardens. So much for saving all of them, she thinks, as she dives into a roll to escape a sword swing, then fade steps to Cullen’s side.

 

He’s fine; the soldiers with him aren’t. Grimacing, Hawke activates Compassion’s aura and whirls her staff, latching onto every wound she can find in her people and knitting it back together. Her barrier goes up as an automatic afterthought, and from the top of the ledge she can see the others starting to rain down fire, whilst Cassandra charges in.

 

“Report, Commander,” Hawke snaps, beginning to weave glyphs on the ground around them.

 

“The Templars we can deal with,” Cullen calls, not looking at her, his focus wholly on the fight. “The Wardens are the problem.”

 

Drawing her hand back, Hawke throws it out and weaves static around one of the Wardens - but he grits his teeth and shrugs it off, breaking out from the cage with a roar of defiance. _Well_ _,_ Hawke thinks to herself. _Shit._

 

“The last time we fought together,” she says casually, refreshing the barrier around the two of them, “we killed the Knight-Commander.”

 

She can’t see Cullen’s face, but she’s sure he’s grimacing. “The last time we fought together, I was on lyrium.”

 

He moves then, as fast as she does when she’s fade stepping - except he’s doing it just with his own damn body. Cullen’s shield goes up to guard his flank as he bursts out of the barrier, swinging his sword towards the Warden in front of him. 

 

The man stumbles halfway through throwing up his own shield, but Cullen is fast - too fast. Dead in a single blow, the man crumples to the floor, and Hawke finds herself suddenly very glad that Cullen was always on her side.

 

“Why do we even bother giving our Templars lyrium?” Hawke calls, reaching out to weave a paralysis rune under a new wave of enemies.

 

Cullen looks at her over his shoulder, shield raised in a bracing stance. “None of them are as good as me,” he says, still grimacing.

 

“I should fire the scout that told me you needed backup. He’s clearly blind.”

 

They take out the remaining forces easily, and the Inquisition soldiers call out in cries of relief. A strong, armoured hand wraps around Hawke’s waist and pulls her in, the last of her lightning still crackling at her fingertips.

 

“Be careful,” Cullen implores, kissing her deeply. Then he pulls back and tilts his head down, looking at her intently. “And most importantly, give him hell.”

 

“I will,” she vows, reaching up to press a static-wreathed hand to his cheek. “I love you.”

 

She runs off to join the others, through the soldiers that are staring at her in shock, not waiting to hear him say it back. She doesn’t need to; she already knows.

 

\---

 

The Temple of Mythal - for that is what it is, this vine-covered, ancient structure - is beautiful beyond words.

 

Hawke doesn’t get to appreciate it at first, due to the abrupt need to outrun a fucking archdemon. She weaves haste around all of them, urges them onwards, forwards, “We are not dying like this!”

 

They press over the bridge, stumbling into the outer courtyard for a tenuous version of safety - sealed behind a door whose magic reminds Hawke of a golden eluvian. Laughing breathlessly, Varric says, “I guess that’s what he did to Larius.”

 

“Only he didn’t focus on becoming quite so ugly,” Hawke replies, trying to get the image of the Warden’s body breaking into Corypheus’s twisted form.

 

Beside them, Merrill and Morrigan have recovered fastest from the run - they are stood looking out on the courtyard, wearing twinned expressions of rapturous curiosity. “Look, Hawke,” Merrill says, as the rest of them come over. “Isn’t it incredible?”

 

“If you ignore the bodies,” Varric mumbles.

 

“You said Corypheus wanted an eluvian,” Cassandra points out, looking at Morrigan in accusation. “But he mentioned a ‘Well of Sorrows’. Which is right?”

 

“I...am uncertain of what he referred to,” Morrigan says, which is the least reassuring thing Hawke’s heard all week. When everyone simply stares at Morrigan, the woman throws her hands up. “Yes, I was wrong. Does that please you? Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus wants it.”

 

Varric hefts Bianca onto his shoulder. “Well, that’s enough for me.”

 

“Corypheus cannot die,” Solas murmurs, his rich voice falling soft.

 

“We’ll find a way to stop him,” Hawke insists, as undeterred, Merrill takes her hand and leads her round, looking at every rock and plant and artwork. The statue of Fen’Harel causes Merrill to shudder, and the murals cause her eyes to gleam with tears. But the greatest moment is when they step onto a deeply engraved platform. It sinks ever so slightly, illuminating with the same vibrant gold as the door.

 

Next to her, Merrill lets out a delighted, “Ooh!”, and points. “Atish’all vir abelasan,” she reads. “Enter the path of the Well of Sorrows.”

 

“Following their path,” Morrigan says, after attempting further translation seemingly to no avail, “may help us.”

 

Cassandra grumbles, shifting her shield on her arm. “Perform a ritual to appease elven Gods? Long-dead or no, I don’t like it.”

 

“But Merrill does,” Hawke snaps, when she feels the elf deflate. “Come on, then. Show me how this works.”

 

The overwhelmed, rapturous look upon Merrill’s face is made all the more beautiful by the golden light that suffuses her as she steps through. In that moment, Hawke resolves never to question Merrill’s faith in her Gods again. It proves a more relevant resolution than she expects.

 

\---

 

They start to open the way forward - and, in a way that doesn’t surprise Hawke at all, it transpires that Morrigan does know what the Well of Sorrows is. But her description is beautiful, passionate and heartfelt and so unlike this stern and biting woman, and it makes Hawke’s heart sing with understanding.

 

Yes, magic is a brilliant, incredible thing, and so much of it has been lost to the world. Were there once more people who could see magic, as Bethany does? Or walk the Fade as a dreamwalker like Feynriel? How many more spirit healers were there, before the Circles? What could all of the mages made Tranquil against their will have wrought within the world?

 

“It is said,” Morrigan continues, “a great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows...but at a terrible price.”

 

“Halam’shivanas.” The two of them turn, looking at Merrill, who has lost her joyous expression and is now solemn and serious. She smiles softly at Morrigan. “Oh, yes, I knew you were lying. But then I didn’t say anything either, so here we are.”

 

Morrigan inclines her head to her in acknowledgement. “It means, ‘the sweet sacrifice of duty’. It implies the loss of something personal. Yet for those who served at this temple, a worthwhile trade.”

 

“If you’re serving everything,” Merrill says, running her fingers idly down Hawke’s sleeve, “something isn’t much to give up at all.”

 

“If the opportunity arises to save this Well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

 

Hawke glances over at Morrigan, and nods. “We’ll see. Let’s complete the rest of the rituals. It’ll open the way, and...we’ll see what happens then.”

 

And, at length, the door gleams to permit them entry. They pry Merrill and Solas away from the last of the mosaics, and enter into a huge, gleaming chamber - where half a dozen elves promptly level bows at them.

 

 _Of course_ _,_ Hawke thinks. _Let’s not make this simple._

 

“You,” the elf who steps in front of them says, “are unlike the other invaders.”

 

Pain lances through Hawke’s hand as the mark activates on her hand, and she grimaces. The elf - who looks unlike any other elf she’s ever known - levels questions at her, and Hawke suspects she would answer truthfully even if there weren’t that many bows pointed at her back. Abelas has a presence, strong and stoic and steady, and it seems wrong to question it.

 

So she doesn’t.

 

She asks questions, tells him the truth, admits all that she knows - she can feel Morrigan tensing at her side, but she carries on. When she asks of the Well, he tells her it is a path walked by those in Mythal’s favour, and Hawke wonders if the rituals they walked were more like a pilgrimage.

 

“We did not come to fight, nor to steal from your temple,” she says when her questions are exhausted, and she has been given only more questions about Tevinter history that are likely to make Dorian scream at her.

 

Abelas’s offer is fair, though Morrigan is upon her at once, reminding her of the Well. But Solas - who has implored her for very little - speaks against her. It isn’t a question, not really. She is not going to raise arms against an ancient people who have stood guard for longer than she can comprehend.

 

“I accept your terms,” Hawke says, and Abelas bows. Relieved, Hawke turns to move onwards, until Abelas declares his intent to destroy the Well, and Morrigan…

 

...flies after him, transforming in a cloud of smoke, leaving Hawke sighing in her wake.

 

“You know,” Varric says, gesturing after the flying bird, “I think she might be our new Isabela. Should we expect the raging Qunari now, or later?”

 

\---

 

The loremaster leads them through the inner temple, and as they fight invader after invader, Hawke tries to think. Is Morrigan right? She isn’t even elvhen, but has a love for their history and for the history of magic that Hawke understands deep down to her bones.

 

She comes up with no answers.

 

“So,” Solas says, as they step through to the Well’s chamber - a huge, open space. “Mythal endures.”

 

Merrill holds her hands to her mouth, eyes gleaming, and says nothing.

 

They start to descend the stairs - and then there is another voice. “I want them dead before the master arrives!” Calpernia calls, and Hawke grimaces.

 

She’s beaten them here - but it’s not too late. Corypheus’s lieutenant offers them the chance to leave - and nothing in Hawke wants to show this woman mercy. This woman in front of her is a slaver, a servant of Corypheus, and she also appears to be completely fucking insane.

 

But perhaps there’s something. Because Hawke remembers the things Leliana sent her to find, in the shrine to Dumat, and if there’s a chance that Calpernia will believe this, will change, then damnit, she has to try.

 

She hurls the copy of the binding ritual at Calpernia, and watches the woman’s face fall as she reads. It’s proof. Hawke knows it’s proof.

 

“He made so many promises,” Calpernia snarls, “and every one, a lie! Venhedis kaffan vas!” Calpernia speaks again, and Hawke closes her eyes as she listens. “Slaves,” the woman says, “allowed to show their full potential.”

 

Hawke sees lyrium tattoos, white blond hair, a body battered from the bolts of her staff. She failed Fenris then. She will not fail him now.

 

“I’m sorry, Calpernia,” Hawke says. “That’s not a future I can permit.”

 

The fight is bloody, and hard, especially with Morrigan gone - but by the end of it they are stood over Calpernia’s lifeless body, and perhaps Tevinter is a little safer for it. Perhaps it isn't. Some answers don't come quickly.

 

Wings flap; there is no time to catch their breath. They are running, running after Abelas running after Morrigan, up Fade-touched stairs to where the Well of Souls sits amidst the eluvian they had thought Corypheus was seeking.

 

“Abelas!” Hawke calls, stumbling to the top of the stairs.

 

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

 

Morrigan stands next to him in human form once more, her staff clutched in her hands and a spell glowing ready in her fingertips.

 

“So,” Abelas says, “the sanctum is despoiled at last.”

 

Hawke opens her mouth to speak, but someone does before she can - a soft, lilting voice that in the mess with Calpernia she had almost forgotten was there. Merrill places herself between Abelas and the rest of them, kneeling.

 

“No,” Merrill says, shaking her head. “It is _not_.”

 

“Child -” Morrigan begins, but Merrill cuts her off.

 

“I am not a child. I am a Keeper of the Dalish. I am a servant of Mythal, as I have been since the day I was born, and as I shall always be.” Sweet Merrill, beautiful Merril, she lifts her head and looks up at Abelas in supplication. “I do not know you, and I wish that I did. I wish that I could, for you are _everything_ I have ever searched for. But I know duty. I know sacrifice.”

 

Warmth creeps into Hawke’s face, the tension of tears welling up in her eyes. She steps around behind Merrill, placing herself between her and Morrigan. The witch tenses as if in protest, but Hawke glares at her, silencing whatever she might have been able to say.

 

“Do you even know what you ask, da’len?” Abelas says, now looking at no one but Merrill. He reaches out and traces the vallaslin on her face. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on - through this. All that we were. All that we knew. It would be lost forever.”

 

Tears pour down Merrill’s face, highlighting her markings with glossy trails. “I am a _Keeper,”_ she says again, her voice a hoarse sob. “I cannot let it. It is my duty. Hawke - Hawke, please. Tell him. I cannot let this be lost. Not after everything I have done.”

 

“Merrill,” Hawke says, reaching out and brushing the tears away. “You don’t need me to fight for you. You've done it all on your own.”

 

“There are other places, friend,” says Solas, stepping forward and placing a hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “Other duties. Your people yet linger.”

 

“Elvhen such as you?” Abelas asks, looking at him and Merrill.

 

“Yes,” Solas says with conviction. “Such as we.”

 

Abelas turns pale eyes on Merrill, and twitches his hand, urging her to rise. “And what would you do with this knowledge?”

 

Merrill laughs, the sound a peal of melody in the quiet sanctum. “If I knew that, I would surely have all the knowledge of Mythal already.”

 

“Perhaps. Brave it if you must, da’len, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

 

“Oh, hahren,” Merrill says, bowing her head. “That isn’t a sacrifice. It’s an honour.”

 

“Very well.”

 

They speak a little more, and at length Abelas bows, taking his exit and leaving them to the Well. With new tears in her eyes, Merrill turns to look at Hawke, and then over to Morrigan. In a small voice that somehow manages to be full of defiance, she asks, “Am I going to have to fight you?”

 

Morrigan looks at her sternly, then sighs. “No. You have the right. ‘Tis enough for me that the knowledge here will endure.”

 

“Oh, good,” Merrill laughs, “because I’m not sure I could take you. Hawke could, though, right Hawke?”

 

Gently, Hawke reaches out and takes Merrill’s hands, holding them close to her chest. “I’m not going to stop you either,” she says, looking into Merrill’s wide eyes. “But I have to make sure that you’re sure.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Then,” Hawke says, “go finish your pilgrimage, servant of Mythal.”

 

Through tears, Merrill kisses her on each cheek - then once on the forehead, and once on the tip of the nose, laughing in a way that makes everything in Hawke’s chest lose its weight, as if all the cares of the world had faded.

 

“Daisy,” Varric says, stepping forward and ruffling Merril’s hair. “Don’t change.”

 

Smiling, Merrill turns and walks into the Well of Sorrows.

 

\---

 

When they get back to Skyhold, it feels empty and strange. Cassandra has ravens sent to Leliana and Cullen at once, ordering them to retreat and come home, whilst the rest of them help the dazed and overwhelmed Merrill into the war room. Hawke can all but feel the magic coming off her like a heat haze, but she seems fine, her vitals stable if elevated.

 

“What happened?” Josephine asks, entering flanked by Dorian and Anders.

 

Stepping forward, Varric explains, and Hawke watches as their three faces transform through every kind of astonishment. At points they even interject - Josephine when Varric explains what happened to Corypheus, and Dorian when they mention Abelas’s version of Tevinter history.

 

It isn’t until the end that Anders snaps, when Varric says that Merrill was the one who drank from the Well - a truth that is clear from her dreamy expression, but rings through the room all the same as it’s spoken aloud.

 

“How could you let her do that?” he says, rounding on Hawke with a horrified expression.

 

Hawke twists, moving as if to shield Merrill on instinct. “It was her choice, Anders. And it’s what she believes in. It’s everything she’s ever fought for!”

 

“Didn’t you listen to what Varric just said? Bound forever to the will of Mythal?” Anders’s voice has risen in pitch now, and everyone is staring at them, even Merrill, though her gaze is far less focused.

 

Panic rises in Hawke’s chest, and without thinking she reaches for Compassion’s aura - the aura that hasn’t been up since they last needed it, fighting Calpernia. Comfort rushes back around her at once, in threads of magic that tickle her skin.

 

 _He’s scared for her, little bird,_ Compassion says at once, the words coming in a rush as if she had been yearning to send them.

 

And for all that Hawke has a lot of conflicting feelings about the spirit that embraces her, Hawke knows deep down into her bones that she’s right. Because Merrill is a mage, and as much as Anders always judged her for her blood magic, he never stopped fighting for her. 

 

“Anders,” Hawke says, stepping to the side, so that she no longer blocks him from Merrill. “I swear to you, she is alright. See for yourself.”

 

He falters, but kneels down in front of Merrill’s chair, examining her pulse and eyes and even tilting her limbs back and forth to test their movement. When he tries to tilt her head, Merrill catches his hands and smiles at him.

 

“I can hear them,” she says, her voice soft and unbelieving. “My people. I can hear them, Anders.”

 

Anders’s eyes gleam, and his expression falters. “You know, hearing voices isn’t the best thing that can happen to you.”

 

Smiling, Merrill drops his hands and boops him on the nose. “I’m still me, you know. You’re the one who’s acting all weird. Since when do you like me?”

 

“The Well speaks to you?” Morrigan says, interjecting with a gasp.

 

“Oh, yes.” Merrill smiles. “But they have quite a lot to say, it’s a little bit overwhelming really, but quite lovely. I do know what we need to do, though. About Corypheus.”

 

This makes even Hawke start, and she drops to her knees beside Anders, reaching out to grab at Merrill’s leg. “What…”

 

“That dragon he’s got - ooh, it’s clever. I don’t think it’s an archdemon at all, not now. It’s just something he’s put all his power in. If we kill it, he’ll lose access to it and - well, I think he’d be mortal, you see, and then you’d be able to kill him, like you’re supposed to, and everyone will be safe again.”

 

“You say it as if it will be easy,” sighs Cassandra, though there is a glint of hope in her eyes. “It is no normal dragon.”

 

“Actually,” Merril says, now getting out of her chair and sending Hawke and Anders scrambling to their feet, “I think there’s a way we can do it. But I’m going to need your help. If that’s alright. I don’t imagine I’m your favourite person right now. I mean I’m not many peoples’ favourite person, but…”

 

“What do you require?” Morrigan asks, her expression somewhere between exasperated and withering.

 

Merrill laughs. “Ooh, no, I think we’d probably better wait for the army to get back first. We’ll still need one of _those_ , I’m not Mythal Herself.”

 

Grinning, Hawke reaches out and cups Merrill’s cheek. “For the record, you are _my_ favourite person.”

 

“What’m I, nug biscuits?” Varric protests, throwing his hands up.

 

“No, Hawke, Bethany’s your favourite person.”

 

“I suppose that’s right,” Hawke sighs, letting her hand drop. “Well, I tried for you. You were always Isabela’s favourite, though. She gave you a nickname and everything.”

 

Merrill nods. “I do miss her. She taught me an awful lot of things you know - some of which I probably shouldn’t talk about.”

 

“Speaking of which, let’s get you to bed, Daisy. Better let those thousands of years of elvhen knowledge finish brewing, or...whatever.” Stepping forward, Varric offers her his hand. “And the rest of you too, go get some rest.”

 

“Who’s Inquisitor here exactly?” Hawke grins, following them out of the war room and to a soft, warm bed.

 

\---

 

“Your idea,” Leliana says, in a deadpan tone normally reserved only for the worst failures, “is to summon Mythal?”

 

“There’s a shrine, you see. I know where it is, it isn’t too hard to get to.”

 

“If you are certain this is the right course of action…” Cullen says, looking first to Merrill and then to Hawke.

 

Hawke nods, arms folded. “We’re an organisation founded to do the work of the Divine. I think we can manage a bit of faith.”

 

The shrine proves to be as beautiful as the temple, if not moreso - there is much less in the way of buildings, and trees shroud the grove in a beautiful circle. Hawke finds herself stood in the centre of it, looking up at the altar ahead, wondering if she’s ever found any of the Chantries she’s stood in this peaceful. She doesn't even recognise the flowers that grow around the statue upon the small platform of stones.

 

“What do you need us to do?” Hawke asks, reaching out to brush her fingertips against Merrill’s arm.

 

“Should we...go?” Bull asks, waving in the direction of the glade entrance.

 

“I think so,” Merrill says, smiling up at him. “But don’t go too far! You know, just incase. You’ll stay, though, right Hawke?”

 

Hawke nods, drawing her staff from her back and leaning on it. “If you want me to. I’m sure Morrigan will as well, since she’s skulking around here trying to pretend she didn’t follow us. You do remember that Merrill asked you for help, right?”

 

“I see that your time as a hunted woman has taught you some useful skills,” Morrigan remarks, stepping out of the trees.

 

Merrill focuses for a moment, then smiles at the others. “I think we’re all ready.” She turns then, and stands before the altar, barely managing to restrain her smile into an expression of reverence. What she murmurs there is elvhen so complex that Hawke barely recognises a word - save for Mythal’s name.

 

For a moment, nothing happens.

 

Then there is a stirring behind them, a breeze that ruffles leaves and curls about - it whirls up into a cloud of smoke that, in turn, coalesces to become a figure that Hawke does not expect.

 

Tall and regal as Hawke remembers her, Flemeth steps out and smiles crookedly at them, her horned head held high. This is astonishing enough - even more astonishing is the word that comes from Morrigan’s lips, torn in a mixture of horror and surprise, her voice so broke that it resonates with truth.

 

“Mother?”

 

Turning, Hawke looks at Morrigan, her mouth hanging open. “Mother?” she echoes, incredulously.

 

“Now...isn’t this a surprise,” Flemeth purrs, prowling forward.

 

“Asha’bellanar!” gasps Merrill in surprise. “I...you’re…”

 

“She is a deceiving witch!” sobs Morrigan, launching herself forwards. She sweeps her hands, power suffusing them and hurling towards Flemeth - what spell it is Hawke can’t discern, because it has absolutely no effect.

 

“Ah…” Flemeth sighs, and looks to Merrill. “Be a good girl and restrain her, won’t you?”

 

In a single flourish of her staff, Merrill weaves vines around herself that Hawke recognises all too well - reaching out, they grasp Morrigan in their thorns and pull her in towards her. Hawke steps forward, as if to do something - then sees the smile on Flemeth’s face and pauses.

 

Not Flemeth's face. Mythal’s face.

 

“What are you doing?” Morrigan calls, writhing so much that the thorns tear her skin. “What are you doing?”

 

Stumbling, Merrill stares at her hands, as if not quite believing them - but she does not let the spell go.

 

“Just when I think I’ve made sense of the world,” Hawke says, shaking her head. “She’s doing what Mythal commands, Morrigan.”

 

Morrigan goes completely still. “You...are Mythal?”

 

“Asha’bellanar,” Merrill says breathlessly, dropping to one knee. “I…”

 

She isn’t Mythal, Flemeth tells them - not exactly. And yet she is, all at the same time, as much as anyone could be in this world. It seems unbelievable, but Merrill believes it - so much that tears are pouring down her cheeks, and that is enough for Hawke. She promised herself never to question Merrill's faith. She won't do it now. Not even when it turns out that her Goddess is the dragon who saved them from an army of darkspawn.

 

“The spirit,” Merrill says, softly and hesitantly. “The one that offered you vengeance, after all those terrible things. It was Mythal, wasn’t it?”

 

Gently, Flemeth reaches out and brushes the tears from Merrill’s cheeks. “Yes. Your legends are true, my child.”

 

“We...we called to you so much, Asha’bellanar. We called and called. I watched my Clan die, and I called to you, and…”

 

“Enough,” Flemeth snaps, and Merrill falls silent immediately. “Do not speak to me of those who have betrayed you. They are not worth the words from your mouth. You sought to restore a great power to the world, did all that you could to save them, and they turned upon you.”

 

It’s something Hawke has told Merrill a hundred times, but coming from Flemeth - from Mythal - it has a whole different effect. Merrill sobs, audibly, wrapping her arms around herself and trembling. But then there are arms around her - arms wreathed in metal. Flemeth pulls her to her feet and holds her steady.

 

“Not all wrongs can be made right,” Flemeth says firmly, “least of all those in the past. I am here now.”

 

Morrigan makes a protest again, and Flemeth - stepping back from Merrill with a prowling gait - launches into a declaration of vengeance that sends chills down Hawke’s spine. But even still, she trusts her. She trusts her, and perhaps she shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to trust someone who snatched you and everyone you loved from the jaws of death.

 

But they’re here for something more - so, carefully, Hawke steps forward and interjects, “We called you because we need your help. Again.”

 

“Ah, Champion,” Flemeth sighs, shaking her head. “You think that what I did for you in Lothering was help? No. Sometimes history requires a push to put it back in the right direction. You, Inquisitor, are a shove.”

 

She tells them of the dragon, and how to call it, and then with a hand pressed to Merrill’s head she turns and descends the steps.

 

“Wait!” Morrigan calls, her voice hoarse with anguish.

 

“I wished to see who had drunk from the Well of Sorrows,” Flemeth says, her expression shifting. “And now I have, and she is free to do as she will. A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in any danger from me."

 

Wings flap, and shadow falls over the grove. In the distance, Hawke sees the Iron Bull start charging.

 

\---

 

“How did it go?” Cullen asks, when they walk wearily back into the war room.

 

“Well,” Hawke says, looking to the others, “I’m losing track of the number of dragons I’ve fought.”

 

Josephine looks at her in astonishment. “There was...a dragon?”

 

“I suppose we should call it our dragon, now,” Merrill says with a small grin. “Mythal’s Guardian. She lent her to us.”

 

They explain what happened, and by the end of it everyone is staring at both Merrill and Morrigan in astonishment. There are many more people in the war room, this time - everyone who’s travelled with her or advised Hawke is here, in varying degrees of shock. Even Bethany is here, hand in Anders’s, standing in the corner. 

 

By the end of the explanation everyone is silent, waiting for something.

 

_It’s you, little bird. They are waiting for you._

 

_I know._

 

_You can do this. An end to it, at last. For Bethany._

 

Hawke clenches her fists at her side. “So. We can take care of the dragon. What about Corypheus.”

 

“We need to find him before he comes to us,” Cullen says, stepping up to stand next to her, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword.

 

Leliana shakes her head. “We’ve been looking for his base since all this began, we…”

 

“Mama!” Bethany calls, her voice so panicked it makes Hawke’s heart skip a beat.

 

“Hush, love,” murmurs Anders, reaching down as if to pick her up. He isn’t fast enough - Bethany launches herself over towards Hawke in a wild panic. “Bethany -”

 

Pain lances through Hawke’s hand, but it’s nothing compared to the agony she sees on Bethany’s face. The two of them stumble to the ground - Cullen catches Hawke and Anders manages to grab Bethany, but the world is white, white white and white and…

 

Green.

 

People start crying out around her, but Hawke can’t think of anything else but Bethany. She reaches forward with her good hand, cradling the mark to her chest, and thank fucking Andraste, Cullen gets the idea. He pulls her over to Anders and she drops to her knees completely, cradling Bethany against her chest.

 

“It’s okay, Bethy. It’s alright. I’ve got you -”

 

“Inquisitor, the Breach!”

 

“- I’ve got you, everything’s going to be alright -”

 

“It’s open. He’s here! Inquisitor, we must march _now."_

 

Familiar magic settles over them; Merrill’s barrier, only it’s woven over both her and Bethany. It can’t do anything for the mark, but it stops the sparks that had begun to cluster at Hawke’s fingertips, and the static lancing over Bethany’s arms.

 

 _Little bird,_ Compassion says. _It’s time. Go. Run. Save her._

 

The world is broken again, and Hawke wishes with everything she had that someone else could put it back together.

 

She does it anyway.

 

\---

 

They stand looking at the remains of Corypheus together, like they’re back in his prison, only this time the rocks around them are the slowly crumbling remains of the Temple. The worst of the landslide stopped the moment they got to the lower platform, and now they are adrift in clouds that are paling and thinning with every passing moment.

 

The Breach is gone. 

 

There’s nothing but that same wispy coil of cloud in the sky - the sunlight has even come back, and the world is warm toned again, not sickly and green.

 

Varric claps his hand onto Hawke’s shoulder and she jolts, electricity running down her arm and to her -

 

She shivers.

 

“Andraste’s tits, Hawke, don’t die of a chill _now._ Here.” Varric hands Hawke his gloves, and she pulls them on gratefully as the others gather round them.

 

“Not bad,” Iron Bull says, nudging the wispy scraps of cloth that are all that remain of Corypheus. “We sure he’s dead this time?”

 

“He is,” Merrill says, nodding. “Very much so. Everyone in my mind is quite certain, actually.”

 

Dorian eyes her sideways. “You know, that really is rather unsettling.”

 

“You think it’s unsettling for you!” chimes Merrill cheerfully. “They’re not in your head!”

 

Titling her head, Cassandra asks, “What was that, Inquisitor? That you did to him?”

 

“I opened a rift,” Hawke says, her voice hoarse. “Inside him.”

 

“That’s…”

 

“Absolutely insane,” Dorian concludes, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sol- hmm. I could’ve sworn he was right behind me.”

 

From towards the edge, Sera calls, “Oi, you lot! How’re we gonna get _down?”_

 

Sighing, Morrigan transforms in a puff of smoke. It takes a long time for her to ferry them all down in her eagle claws, especially when it comes to lifting Bull, but eventually they are all back down on the real ground, surrounded by the perplexed Inquisition troops.

 

For once, Hawke doesn’t sigh as Sera begins shouting at everyone who passes by - it proves an effective way to spread the world. _Corypheus is dead_ , the chant goes, rippling through the army. _Praise Andraste, he is defeated!_

 

Clutching her left hand to her chest, Hawke does her best to make it look like she’s holding her staff there out of the way, as everyone around her begins to come and shake her right hand. She finds herself drawn through the crowds, away from the others, through swells of Templars and soldiers who carry her through the ruins and back towards Skyhold.

 

It becomes impossible to escape; she stops trying. She stops doing much at all, but forcing herself to smile and shake hands and hug and go wherever the people of Skyhold take her.

 

It doesn’t feel like an ending should do. The loose ends scatter around her like puppet strings waiting to latch on.

 

\---

 

The wind on the battlements can't cut away the truth. She can hear the party carrying on throughout Skyhold - it’s wrong to call it a single party, really. The Chargers have taken over the tavern; the soldiers have started a dance outside the stables. Even the Templars are drinking on the stairs to the main building.

 

Hawke isn’t.

 

She thought about going to the shrine to Andraste, but she can’t. Not now. Not with this painful, terrible realisation thrumming hard in her chest like a heart attack. This is Justinia’s fault. She made Hawke catch the orb. Andraste wanted this to happen to her. The Maker wanted this to happen.

 

Sat on the battlements themselves, a stupid, precarious position where she could fall to her death with a single slip of one leg, Hawke cradles her left hand in her right. Varric’s gloves stare back at her - she hasn’t taken them off since he handed them over.

 

She knows what she’ll find.

 

The wind changes, and brings the sound of footsteps. Hawke jolts - catches herself on the stone with her right hand and turns, looking at an aghast, incredulous expression.

 

“Come on, love,” Anders says, coming up to the battlements to look at the fall below. “Surely having people celebrate your victory isn’t that bad.”

 

Hawke swallows tightly. “How are - things? In the infirmary?”

 

“Everyone’s fine.”

 

“Good. That’s - that’s good. What about Blackwall’s leg?”

 

Anders folds his arms and frowns at her. “Perfectly healed. Which you know, because you healed it yo - Hawke, what’s going - Hawke, you’re crying. Get down. Get down from there, please.”

 

His voice becomes desperate as he steps up and reaches for her. Wincing, Hawke pulls her left hand to her chest and forces him to lead her down from the precipice by her right. When her boots clap hard onto the stone, Anders keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, as if worried she might jump nonetheless.

 

“What is it?”

 

If she says it aloud, Hawke reasons, it will become real. So instead she bites down on the finger of her right hand and pulls Varric’s first glove off, throwing it to the floor. Then, hands trembling, she removes the second.

 

The horrified understanding that washes over Anders’s face is lit up by pale, flickering green light. He freezes, one hand around her waist and the other halfway through brushing the tears from her cheeks.

 

“He’s gone,” Hawke says, her voice seeming not to come from her at all. “It isn’t. Anders, I’m going to die. I’m going to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t -”

 

Darkness engulfs them again as Anders pulls her tight to his chest, the hand on her face moving to cradle the back of her head as he kisses her. Once, twice - “No, love.” - three times - “You’re not going to die.” - four, and they’re not standing anymore, they’ve collapsed into a pile on the floor and he’s pulling her into his lap - “I am not losing you again, Hawke, I’m not.”

 

He kisses her through sobs that wet their lips with tears, continuing a litany of promises they both know they can’t swear to keep.

 

And Hawke, shaking, tries to reach for that spark of hope. The one that kept her alive after Haven. The warmth of faith and trust and the knowledge, the belief, the certainty that she would never die.

 

It isn’t there.

 

Nothing is there but the fact that, just like before, she has failed. The world is safe, but she is still dying. She is still going to leave Bethany, just like the first Bethany left her, just like her mother left her, her father -

 

After everything she’s done, she is still just a Hawke.


	5. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to put both this interstitial period and Trespasser all in one chapter - then these two years turned out to be 10,000 words, and Trespasser isn't a short jaunt, so I've decided to break it up.
> 
> Enjoy! We're so very nearly at the end of all things.

For the first time in the months and months that they’ve been here, the tension in the air around the three of them is gone. As if nothing had ever happened. As if they’d never hurt each other. As if no one had ever left.

 

Of course, it isn’t that there’s nothing there. It’s been replaced by a new, far worse truth.

 

Hawke watches this truth as if detached from her own body, observing how it makes Anders’s jaw clench and never relax. How it makes Cullen grip anything he holds just a little too hard, his arms visibly tense. How she has curled her arms around her knees and won’t let go, just like the day Mother died.

 

“Someone will know what to do,” Anders says, emptily. “Solas, or Morrigan, or the people who live in Merrill’s head. We’ll ask everyone, anyone we know, maybe some of the mages in the Wardens can help or Alistair or _someone._ ”

 

Cullen closes his eyes. “The more people we tell, the more panic there will be.”

 

“Cullen, there’s a giant glowing green gap in reality in Hawke’s hand. You don’t think people are going to ignore that it’s still there?”

 

“They - they might not know what it means,” Cullen sighs halfheartedly, sitting down next to her. He doesn’t hold her, but his side rests against hers, the metal of his armour pushing gently into her skin.

 

Hawke bites her lip. Everyone knows what it means. Some people know that more than they know her actual name. In fact, she’d wager at least half of the Inquisition doesn’t know her first name at all.

 

“We should check on Bethany soon.” Anders is still pacing back and forth, his fingers flexing and unflexing, as if there’s a chance he might grasp a solution out of the air itself.

 

“She’s sleeping,” Cullen says, turning his head towards Hawke. “Let’s not disturb her. Varric is with her.”

 

Anders isn’t worried about Bethany, Hawke knows. He’s worried about her, but he can’t fix her, so he’s looking for something else to fix. But hey! At least they’re talking now, the three of them. At least when she dies, Bethany will have a family still.

 

Maker, she has to tell Carver.

 

The thought makes her shiver, and Cullen reaches out at once, gathering her close to him. “Marian?”

 

“She’s not going to say anything,” Anders says bitterly, pausing to stare at her. “She hasn’t said anything since…”

 

He’s right. Cullen tries, asking her if she’s alright, if she needs anything, what they should do. Hawke has no words. She doesn’t know what words you’re supposed to have, when this happens. She doesn’t think there’s a _supposed to_ for this at all.

 

Words come to her anyway, unbidden and unwanted and uncomfortable. Hawke closes her eyes and listens to the soft, gentle voice in her mind.

 

 _Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls,_ Compassion murmurs. _From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._

 

Something in that distance between Hawke’s mind and body snaps, crashes headlong into one another, and the world begins burning because she cannot breathe for the sobs. This is wrong, this is wrong, everything is wrong and she wishes with all she had that she had never realised she believed.

 

In her mind, Compassion keeps going.

 

_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._

 

_In my arms lies Eternity._

 

\---

 

Hawke has everyone summoned to the war room, but fewer people turn up than she expects. There is no Morrigan, no Solas. The latter she’d expected - they’d already noticed he was gone, and she isn’t wholly surprised, because he’s always been a lone wolf - but Morrigan’s absence is new, a thorn in her side.

 

Everyone else is there though, every advisor and every companion who has come with her through this ridiculous journey. Bethany sits next to Merrill in one corner, Anders beside them, whilst everyone else stands around the table.

 

“First of all,” Hawke says, standing at the head of the map with her hands in her pockets, “thank you. For being here. For staying. For giving up all the things you’ve given up. For risking everything. For doing things that you might not be proud of, but knew you had to.”

 

Biting her lip, she flicks her fingers and summons Compassion’s aura. _That includes you,_ she thinks.

 

_Oh, little bird._

 

_This isn’t forgiveness._

 

_Not yet._

 

_...not yet._

 

“Corypheus is gone. His armies are defeated, and along the way we’ve managed to stop a civil war, and save both the Templars and the Grey Wardens - as much as we could, anyway.” Probably best not to mention that she saved the Templars by disbanding them. “The Inquisition has done great things. If you wanted to go, now, none of us would judge you.”

 

“Some’f ‘em already have,” Sera grumbles, rubbing at one ear.

 

Hawke chuckles hoarsely. “Yes. Solas is gone, but we all knew he was weird. Does anyone know why Morrigan left?”

 

“I do,” Merrill says, smiling cheerily. “She’s not _gone_ gone. I’m going to see her soon. We’ve got a lot to do.” The shameful connotation of this flashes in Merrill’s face as she looks down. “I was going to tell you, Hawke, but…”

 

_But I was practically comatose._

 

“You have the knowledge to restore the People, Merrill,” Hawke replies, softly. “I was never going to force you to stay.”

 

In a flutter of fur and cloth, Merrill throws her arms around Hawke and hugs her tightly. “Oh, lethallan. I don’t deserve you.”

 

“Maker, no. You deserve much better.” Squeezing Merrill gently before letting her go, Hawke looks at the others. “The rest of you, you can stay or go. We’ve still got more to do. There are still rifts to close, for a start, the few we didn’t get to.”

 

“Begging your pardon, Inquisitor,” Blackwall says, frown flickering in his moustache, “but how will you go about doing that, without your mark?”

 

Dorian purses his lips. “Yes, with that gone, you’re rather shot in the foot. Unless...oh, dear. It’s not gone, is it? You’re still stuck with the blasted thing.”

 

Hands shaking, Hawke pulls off her gloves and holds her left hand out, palm up. Even in the well-lit room, the green light can be seen flickering in her skin.

 

“What does that mean, Mama?” asks Bethany, wriggling in her father’s lap. 

 

Hawke closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “It means I’m still sick, Bethy.”

 

“But,” Cullen says, his voice strong but not hard, “we are going to find a way to fix it.”

 

A hand reaches out and takes her extended one, thick fingers clasping around hers. “Chuckles,” Varric says, hoarsely, “you should’ve said something.”

 

“I _am_ saying something,” she says, but she’s disconnecting again, becoming other than herself. “This - this is me asking for help. You can go if you want. I won’t stop you. But if any of you will...will stay, to…”

 

“I am staying,” Cassandra declares at once. Beside her, Josephine and Leliana exchange a look, but do not speak - the Inquisition is theirs, after all. They would hardly be leaving.

 

Placing a hand on Merrill’s shoulder, Dorian says, “Between we talented few, I’m certain we can find a solution.”

 

“Inquisitor,” Josephine says, tapping her fingers against the side of her clipboard. “You should be aware that the Inquisition believes you to be cured.”

 

Hawke nods. “I’d like it to stay that way. I don’t want anyone panicking.”

 

Leliana raises an eyebrow. “Then how will you explain our ability to close rifts?”

 

“You say that she retained the power,” Iron Bull rumbles, looking at her intently through his one good eye. “Grateful people accept what they’re told.”

 

“That could work,” Leliana muses, rocking from one foot to the other.

 

“Well,” Hawke says, still holding Varric’s hand, their fingers wreathed in flickering light. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

 

\---

 

Dagna hands her a fingerless glove covered in runes so minute that from a distance they look like shimmering scales. Only close up can the delicate, hand-painted lines be seen - they’re silver, but laced with a blue tint that has to be lyrium. Hawke turns it over and sees the runes coil round in a spiral, centreing on the palm.

 

There’s only one glove; it’s the left hand.

 

“What…”

 

“I can’t claim it’s my idea, not really, although obviously I worked out how to do the runes,” Dagna chatters happily, taking the glove back and undoing the buckle designed to rest around the base. “This is all their idea.”

 

The arcanist points over Hawke’s shoulder, towards Anders and Cullen, who are failing to hide the fact that they’re nervously leaning against one another for comfort. Both of them smile encouragingly with eerie synchronicity.

 

“This might feel a bit strange, the first time. I took some inspiration from that spell, the one you and Merrill found - she showed it to me once, it’s ever so clever. Anyway the glove is a little bit like that, only it’ll take the power the mark sheds and redistribute it safely amongst the runes. They’re designed to absorb things, then emit them slowly over time, so it’s quite safe.”

 

Soft silk lines the glove, which slips onto her hand perfectly. The outer layer is harder, but still supple, like doeskin rather than hardy leather. Dagna buckles it securely into place and beams. It barely feels like she’s wearing a glove at all, and at the same time feels like someone is holding her hand securely, comfortingly.

 

It _does_ feel strange - but then, having a key to the Fade in your fucking hand feels strange, and she’s gotten used to that. As much as you can, anyway.

 

“So! Do you like it?”

 

Hawke looks down at her hand, turning it over and watching the sigils gleam. “You can’t see the light,” she says, marvel creeping into her voice. “It’s completely hidden.”

 

“As far as anyone else needs to know,” Dagna says, gesturing at her, “that glove’s helping you...oh, whatever you want really. Regain muscle strength. Or it’s healing some scars. Maybe it’s just re-regulating your magic in that part of your body.”

 

The sensation of tears burning in her eyes catches Hawke’s attention, and she steps forward, hugging Dagna fiercely.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Inquisitor. Anytime.”

 

\---

 

“Inquisitor!” Josephine calls, her voice high in pitch.

 

Halfway through descending the stairs, Hawke pauses, her hands reaching to grasp for her staff out of instinct. But no - as she turns, it’s just Josephine standing in the doorway above her, looking panicked.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We have a problem. The Grand Clerics are meeting in two days to elect the next Divine.”

 

Distantly, Hawke remembers a conversation about this before. Was she supposed to do something? Shit. She was supposed to declare her support for someone, because of course she’s got the power to sway fucking elections.

 

She claps her good hand to her forehead. “Right. Right.”

 

“Have you decided which of them you will be supporting?”

 

“Which of them?”

 

“Cassandra and Leliana, Inquisitor.”

 

Hawke remembers, then, why she forcibly forgot about the need to make this decision. She isn’t meant to have this kind of power. She is one woman, and the Grand Clerics are meant to represent the breadth of the faithful, except there’s so few of them left, and…

 

_Deep breath, little bird._

 

“Would you ask them to join me in the war room? You, too. We’ll sort this out now.”

 

Looking relieved, Josephine nods and trots past her, on the way to the spot where Cassandra is almost certainly training like always. _Or reading, perhaps,_ Hawke thinks, grinning to herself. Cassandra has this incredible ability to make a single chapter last a month. Hawke has no idea how; Varric’s chapters always end in damned cliffhangers.

 

The three of them stand in the war room a few minutes later, not gathered around the table but over to the side. Hawke sticks her hand into her pocket and pulls out Bethany’s neckerchief, playing with it idly.

 

“Josephine,” she says, not looking up, “what would happen if I _didn’t_ support anyone?”

 

Josephine frowns, but answers anyway. “It is still possible that Cassandra or Leliana would be elected - but it is likely that Enchanter Vivienne of Orlais would receive the title.”

 

Bristling, Hawke replies, “The woman who called Compassion a demon. Great.”

 

“It would also take the Chantry out of Inquisition control,” Leliana says frankly, “denying us the opportunity to change things.”

 

_Change things. As if I’m supposed to keep remaking the world into my own vision. You don’t want me to do that, Leliana. No one does._

 

Hawke sits in the chair behind her with a sigh, running her hands through her hair, elbows leant on her knees. “Fuck.”

 

“I do not like it either, Inquisitor,” says Cassandra wearily, “but it must be done. Enchanter Vivienne would see the Circles restored, as they were before. I...do not think it should be so.”

 

“But you support the Circle?”

 

“Yes. I support a place where mages may learn together in safety.” Cassandra’s face darkens, and Hawke knows she’s remembering Kirkwall, or the story of it at least. “Not imprisonment.”

 

“I would not, as you know.” Shifting, Leliana perches on a nearby side table. “I have known many mages, Inquisitor, many of them my dearest friends. I do not believe that a single one was left unscathed by their time in the Circle.”

 

Hawke brings her palms together, resting her lips on the sides of her fingers. “I’m not comfortable with this,” she says, softly.”

 

Leliana tilts her head. “Why?”

 

“If you’d asked me five years ago, I would have interfered in a heartbeat. I would have done anything to help change things.” She closes her eyes. “But you’re talking about electing the mortal representative of Andraste Herself. Of the Maker. I can’t do that, Leliana. I don’t have the right.”

 

“You are the Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra says, kneeling beside her. “You have every right.”

 

Hawke looks at her, eyes wide. “I know.”

 

“You...do?”

 

“Justinia gave me this mark, Cassandra. She’s the one who knocked the orb into my palm. With her hands - the hands of the Divine, the mortal hand of the Maker in this world.”

 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana says, leaning forward. “You believe.”

 

Hawke catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “I do. Yes. I do. Not in the Chantry. Not as it is - was. But...yes.”

 

“The Maker is with us,” recites Cassandra, bowing her head. “His Light shall be our banner.”

 

It’s the Chant, but Hawke can’t place which part - not until Leliana chuckles, and says, “At last, the Light shall shine upon all of creation, if we are only strong enough to carry it.”

 

Cassandra reaches out and pulls Hawke’s hands from her face, holding them in hers. “We carry that light, Inquisitor. We choose where it shines. He granted us that power, as did she.”

 

Hawke bites her lip.

 

“Chosen or not, Inquisitor, you still walk in the Maker’s grace,” Josephine smiles, softly.

 

Holding tightly onto Cassandra’s hands, Hawke bows her head. Wordlessly, she prays, as if hoping to hear the answer, carried to her in Andraste’s voice. But no. That isn’t how this works. They are the ones who have to show the wisdom, to earn the Maker’s love again. To show that they have moved past terrible, all-consuming greed.

 

How can they do that, if the world doesn’t change?

 

How can they do that, if the world belongs only to those without magic, or pointed ears - or horns, even?

 

“I will not,” Hawke says, her voice stronger than her resolve feels, “risk the future of the Tranquil by taking you from the Seekers, Cassandra. You can save them. You can save them in a way that no one else can.”

 

She opens her eyes and meets Cassandra’s, holding her gaze as tightly as her hands. “I could see it done as Divine,” Cassandra says. “I would.”

 

Hawke shakes her head. “But you will do it more easily as you are.” She tears her eyes, but not her hands, away from Cassandra, looking up at Leliana. “Give me a world where all are free. Give me a world where all are equal. Give me a world where we all understand the value of life.”

 

“It will not come easily,” Leliana cautions, but she is smiling.

 

Standing, Hawke lets go of Cassandra’s hands at last and reaches out for Leliana’s. “Nothing does. But do this, and I will stand at your side no matter what comes. So will all of the Inquisition.”

 

Leliana nods, shaking her hand with cold, slender fingers.

 

“Josephine,” Hawke says, standing tall. “Please relay my preference to the College of Clerics.”

 

“I will see it done at once.”

 

\---

 

Anders grabs onto her shoulder as she walks through the dining room later that day, pulling her back and bumping her into the table - not hard, but enough to make her have to catch herself on the edge.

 

“You’re supporting someone for Divine? Do we care about the Chantry, now?”

 

“I’m the head of the Inquisition, Anders. I’m literally leading the Chantry’s bloody army.”

 

“The Chantry imprisoned our kind for centuries, Hawke.”

 

She grabs him by the arm with her marked hand, pulling him out of the dining room and hissing. “Leliana will change that. She will free us. Even Cassandra would have done, in her way, with a Circle that would have been different.”

 

“You should have picked her, then.”

 

“Anders,” Hawke says, as they step into Solas’s empty rotunda, “you hate Cassandra. Cassandra hates you.”

 

“I’m not sure she does. She hates what I did. But Hawke... _I_ hate what I did.”

 

Stumbling, Hawke stares up at him. He’s never said that before. Never. She catches his face in her hands, kissing him deeply, before remembering that they were in the middle of bloody arguing.

 

She shakes her head, clearing the sudden surge of love in her chest. “Cassandra needs to deal with what the Seekers did. That’s more important. I would have thought you’d understand that.”

 

“What the Seekers did?” Anders says, frowning.

 

Fuck.

 

She hasn’t told him.

 

The breath falls out of her chest, and Hawke runs both of her hands through her hair. “We weren’t talking,” she realises aloud, “when I found out, it was just after - Maker, Anders, I’m so sorry.”

 

And something in her voice must catch on his thoughts, because he softens then, standing in front of her and resting his hands on her upper arms instead. “What is it, love?”

 

“Seekers - their powers aren’t like Templars. Because they’re people who are made Tranquil. And - and then cured, by a spirit.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, because what the fuck _do_ you say to it, she had nothing to say either, the moment she found out. Hawke explains, and explains everything. Cassandra would let him read the book if Hawke asked, she knows.

 

Through all of it, Hawke thinks about Karl, about the empty look in his eyes as Anders plunged a knife into his abdomen. Then his face changes; the beard fades, his hair turns to golden red, and his face is no longer Karl’s but Bethany’s.

 

Anders rests his forehead against hers, oblivious to the image in her mind. The sunburst sears into Bethany’s skin like a death sentence.

 

No. No, that won’t happen. There are no more Circles. Leliana will be Divine, she would never let it happen, not to another innocent mage. Bethany will be safe. Bethany will never need it, she will be safe, the Breach is gone, they can help her.

 

If anyone ever did that to Bethany, Hawke would give Compassion up to cure it, even though it would kill her.

 

“I haven’t been here,” Anders says, his voice soft. “I haven’t been here for you, Hawke.”

 

Their noses brush against one another, and Hawke kisses him, slowly and gently, because it’s the only way they’ve ever truly known how to communicate.

 

“No. But then, I didn’t want you there.” She knots the fabric of his shirt between her fingertips. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have, even though we weren’t talking.”

 

“Hawke,” Anders says, lifting one hand to cup her face, palm resting just below her jaw. “You just told me something impossible. Something I had hoped with everything, _everything_ I have was true. I...I can’t hate you, not for that. I just wish I’d been there with you. I’m here now. We’re here now.”

 

Hawke tilts her head in a small nod, and he uses the movement to bring her against him again, kissing her as if they had all the time in the world - like he used to in Kirkwall, except this time it’s her dying, and not him.

 

“Anders?”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“It isn’t your fault. Bethany’s magic. It’s not your fault.”

 

“...what?”

 

“Compassion did it,” Hawke says, choking on the words. Her aura is still down, and she feels the emptiness of it now, with the spirit’s name wrapped in her tongue. “She gave her the power to see through the Veil. Into the Fade. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t Justice, it -”

 

With a single clench of his arms, Anders pulls her hard against his chest. Static skitters over her skin, but Hawke leans into his grip, moving one arm around his back and letting the other continue clawing into his shirt.

 

“Fuck,” he says, more of a gasp than anything else. “Hawke…”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away, but it was just before we went to the Arbor Wilds, and then Merrill, and it was there and...I’m so sorry, Anders.”

 

 _Once upon a time,_ Hawke thinks, _our apologies used to be the other way around. Was I really better than you then, or did I just fail to notice the times I should have been sorry?_

 

“I…” He begins, then presses his lips into her hair. He mumbles something else, something Hawke doesn’t catch, and only when she asks does he say, “I forgive you. For all of it. For Justice. I forgive you. You freed him, I think. You freed him from me, and I didn’t see it, I was lost and - I forgive you, love.”

 

And that breaks something then, a dam she hadn’t realised was still there, a dam that started crumbling the moment he pulled her dying off the edge of Skyhold and into his arms. The waters of truth flood her like tears pour down her cheeks.

 

“I told Cullen I love him,” she says then, and things come out jumbled because she follows it with, “I told him I love him and I didn’t tell you.”

 

Anders shivers. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

 

“No - no, that’s not what I mean.” With a rough push, Hawke forces herself back far enough that she can grab at his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “If I told you that I loved you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

“Of course not. Why would you? Hawke, my anger twisted a good being into a terrible force of vengeance and I...I let it. I let it become something terrible. I did something terrible, and I can’t undo it, not even now he’s gone.”

 

“I forgive you.”

 

He winces. “You shouldn’t.”

 

The words that have come out of her mouth catch up with Hawke then, and she bites down, struggling to absorb that truth that shouldn’t be. “I forgave you,” she realises aloud, “the day it happened.”

 

_If I hadn’t, I would have killed you, just like I killed Fenris. I couldn’t forgive him for turning on you. It was the same as him turning on me._

 

Shaking, Anders brushes his thumb over her cheek, staring at the tears as if they were proof of her words. “I love you,” he says, not looking her in the eyes.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

\---

 

“Did he say what it’s about?” Hawke asks, weaving through the corridor after Cullen, gloved hand stuffed into her pocket. It’s cold; surely no one will notice.

 

“Infirmary business,” replies Cullen, hand on the door to one of the surgery rooms. “He didn’t say more.”

 

Of course he didn’t. Anders still thinks he can just ask and they’ll just come running, as if a hundred thousand things haven’t happened to make them question that. Even now, even having forgiven him, it’s hard. 

 

“I’m assuming it’s a problem with the soldiers if he wants both of us here,” she says, stepping through into the room - and then stopping.

 

One, because the only person in there is Anders, and he’s wearing his apron. Two, because Cullen has not just closed the door behind her, he’s locked it. With a key. A key that he already had on him.

 

“Excellent, you’re here,” Anders says far too cheerily, lifting one hand and gesturing to the chair in front of him. “Sit down.”

 

Hawke isn’t an idiot - he’s pointing at one of the treatment chairs. The ones with low backs and wide arms, the sort you put a person in to sew shut wounds when there’s no mage around to do the healing. And Cullen...well, Cullen has planted his feet in front of the door.

 

“Of all of his qualities to pick up, Cullen, did you really have to get lying?”

 

“Because you’re the most honest person in the world,” Anders scoffs. “Sit.”

 

“Why.” There’s no inflection in her voice suggesting it’s a question, but Hawke stares at him like she wants an answer anyway.

 

“When was the last time you saw a healer?” Cullen asks, arms folded. “Other than yourself.”

 

Hawke stays stubbornly where she is. “There’s nothing a healer can fix.”

 

“Really,” says Anders, raising an eyebrow sceptically. “You’ve checked yourself, have you? With all that incredibly stable magic you currently have.”

 

“My magic is not unstable!”

 

This would have been a much more convincing statement, Hawke realises, had sparks not flown from her fingertips as she said it.

 

Falling silent, she sits down in the chair, ignoring Anders’s smug expression and Cullen’s concerned one. Wasting no time, Anders starts moving around her, studying her in that surgeon’s way that she’s never actually comprehended.

 

She knows anatomy, knows what goes wrong and how, but her knowledge isn’t from what you can feel with your fingers or hear when you press your head to someone’s chest. It’s from the flow of magic in their bodies, the rhythm of the world within them, nebulous and intangible things that are almost impossible to speak aloud.

 

Anders has always had both. He’s wrong - she isn’t a better healer than him, never has been, she’s just more powerful. She’s more effective at healing, but he can look at a poisoned person from ten paces and know what was used on them. Hawke would just purge the poison and be done with it.

 

But she knows enough to recognise that you don’t _need_ to drag your fingers quite that slowly along the patient’s skin. You can tell whether or not the muscle is clenched with light pressure.

 

“We might have a problem, Cullen,” she says lightly, glancing over at him as Anders moves to stand behind her, running his fingers along her spine.

 

Cullen, Andraste bless him, steps forward at once, looking concerned. “Is everything alright?”

 

“I think it is,” she says, sighing, “or rather, as much as it can be. I think my physician might have worked that out some time ago. And I think -” she glances over her shoulder at Anders, whose lips have started to curl into a smirk “- he might be trying to take advantage of me.”

 

For a moment, Cullen just stares at Anders, who continues to run his fingers over her skin as if nothing had happened. Then he moves, reaching over and picking up the other chair in the room, planting it in front of the door.

 

“When you said you were going to take your time,” he says, scar twisting with his smirk, “I didn’t realise you were going to be this slow.”

 

Anders rests his hands on the back of Hawke’s chair and laughs huskily.

 

“Come on, Commander. If the show was over quickly you’d be disappointed in me. Now, Inquisitor, I’m going to need you to take your trousers off.”

 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did I develop a Fade anchor in my legs when I wasn’t looking?”

 

“No,” Anders says, leaning closer to her. “I just want him to be able to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”

 

\---

 

It’s...strange.

 

It’s not that she’s surprised that the three of them are back together again because, honestly, it was going to happen one way or another. They’re too much of a mess not to collide over and over again. It’s not even a surprise that it’s happening now, whilst one of them is dying and they’re dealing with a dozen other things.

 

It’s just that if you’d asked, she probably would have pegged that as leading to the three of them falling desperately into a bed - not being lured into a setup that’s got one foot into roleplay. At least Anders isn’t wearing his surgery apron anymore.

 

“Whose idea was this, exactly?” she asks, when Anders is halfway through kissing his way up her leg.

 

“He wanted to watch,” Anders explains, pressing his lips to the start of her inner thigh. “I wanted to actually touch you this time.”

 

Cullen tilts his head. “This time?”

 

“You never asked him,” Hawke realises, as Anders pulls her to the edge of the seat. Her shoulders slump down, now resting on the top of the low-backed chair. “That’s disappointing.”

 

“Asked me what?”

 

“How I knew about you and Alistair.”

 

Anders doesn’t answer in words - he laughs into the crease of her leg, following his breath with a swipe of his tongue. “Ohh,” he sighs, and she can feel him grinning.

 

“Some of us don’t get as much time off,” Cullen points out, his eyes fixed on Anders. “I could ask now.”

 

Hawke grins. She points her toes and pulls her heels back, resting them against the legs of the chair, her knees now higher than her legs. “Don’t,” she says, giving the word an edge. “Ask him later. When I’m there. I want to watch him do to you exactly what he did to me.”

 

“Is that an order?”

 

“Would you like it to be?”

 

Anders doesn’t give either of them the chance to answer - he kisses past the place she wants him, making his way up her stomach and ghosting over her breasts in so agonizing a way that she almost growls at him.

 

“Maker, Anders, don’t make me wait. I don’t think I can wait.”

 

“Luckily for you,” he says, hooking one arm under her leg and the other around her back and pulling her up out of the chair. “Neither can I.”

 

Anders carries her over to the desk, the one inches from where Cullen has placed his chair in front of the door, and drops her onto it, claiming her mouth with his. She can hear the wood of Cullen’s chair creaking, but then Anders rakes his fingernails down her back and the idea of doing anything but screwing her eyes shut and whimpering is impossible.

 

“If you do that right there,” Cullen murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, “I am not going to be able to just watch.”

 

The breath leaves Hawke as Anders flips her over, pressing her against the desk and laughing. “I like challenging your self-control,” he says idly, running a hand down between her legs and fucking blight, she’s wet. “I like watching it disintegrate the moment you hear her whimper.”

 

“Maker’s breath, Anders.”

 

Cullen makes it until the first time Hawke comes; then he leaps out of his chair with a growl and, still wearing at least half of his armour, makes Anders fuck him into Hawke into the desk.

 

She was wrong.

 

This isn’t strange at all. It’s home.

 

\---

 

“We do need to talk about this, you know,” Cullen says, trailing one hand over Anders’s stomach.

 

The floor they’ve tumbled onto isn’t really comfortable - the stone is cold and hard and rough - but Hawke can’t really bring herself to care. They’re nestled either side of Cullen, limbs tangled, skin clammy with sweat.

 

“Let’s not do that, love,” sighs Anders. “That’s where it always goes wrong.”

 

Hawke smiles lightly. “So you want to explain it to Bethany, then?”

 

“Ah.”

 

“And to the Inquisition,” Cullen remarks wryly.

 

Anders snorts. “You stuck your tongue down Hawke’s throat in front of fifty soldiers, Cullen, I think that ship’s well and truly sailed.”

 

“Perhaps.” Turning, Cullen cups Anders’s cheek in his hand. “But they haven’t seen me kiss you.”

 

“I didn’t know you were into that sort ofmmph.”

 

There is no part of watching them kiss each other, Hawke thinks idly to herself, that doesn’t make her toes curl up. Things you don’t notice when you’re the one being kissed. Like the tiny, unconscious movements their hips make, reaching forward in minute curls. Or the way Anders’s fingers tremble ever so slightly just before they hit Cullen’s skin.

 

They’re getting distracted, though.

 

Hawke lets them be distracted a little longer than she should.

 

“The Inquisition is quite open-minded,” she says eventually, “but even they will struggle with ‘the Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste are fucking a Grey Warden who, until very recently, was possessed’.”

 

Reluctantly, the two of them stop. “She’s right,” Cullen says.

 

“Well forgive me for wanting not to have to live in the shadows for once,” Anders grumbles, though it’s clearly half-hearted.

 

Hawke reaches out and laces her fingers through his, tugging gently until he looks her in the eyes. “When the rifts are closed. When I am not dying. When the Inquisition’s work is done. Then, we are going somewhere, anywhere, just the four of us. And we won’t have to hide anymore.”

 

“Oh come on, love,” Anders laughs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’d never leave Varric.”

 

“Or the Inquisition,” Cullen points out, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “We should tell Bethany.”

 

“Who are we kidding,” Hawke sighs, resting her head on his shoulder. “She’s probably already worked it out. She’s fucking terrifying.”

 

\---

 

The door to Josephine’s office slams open so violently that the wood cracks. The sudden onset of noise is so surprising that Hawke forgets to even draw her weapon - she just jumps up, placing herself between Josephine and whatever intruder has barged in.

 

And looks straight into her brother’s dark, angry eyes.

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he yells, shaking off the hands attempting to restrain him - Varric, Hawke realises, his face twisted into a weary expression that she recognises as _oh, Junior, why are you such a little brother._

 

Calmly, Hawke turns and looks over her shoulder. “Josephine, would you mind if I borrowed your office for a moment? Thank you. Varric, I think you can let him go now. If he hits me, I probably deserve it.”

 

To his credit, Carver manages to stay calm until the two of them have left the room, closing the cracked door behind them as best they can.

 

“I _should_ hit you,” he says at last, glaring at her, “and you _do_ deserve it.”

 

Hawke rests against the edge of Josephine’s desk. “I know.”

 

Carver deflates. “Are you really dying, sis?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

 

“Well.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“I guess that makes two of us.” He steps forward, arms spread, laughing bitterly. “We can race! Who gets to pop off to see the Maker first, the woman with the Fade in her hand or the man with Darkspawn taint in his blood.”

 

Hawke would probably win. She doesn’t say that. Instead she looks at the floor.

 

“And,” Carver continues, taking another step closer, “to make it worse, you didn’t even take me with you!”

 

She frowns. “Take you with me?”

 

“To fight him! Corypheus? The creature _we_ let out of its prison, _together?”_

 

Ah.

 

Yes, she probably should have done that.

 

“I didn’t know where you were,” Hawke says, but it’s a lame excuse. She sighs. “I was risking enough people I cared about, Carver. I didn’t take Anders, either.”

 

Her brother’s face contorts into a grimace. “Are you two - no. I don’t want to know.”

 

“Tough. I’m going to tell you anyway. Sit down. You’re upset I didn’t ask you to come - fine. I’ll tell you everything you missed. That what you want?”

 

Though Carver pretends to grumble at her, he pulls up a chair straight away, and she sits down opposite him, launching into the story. _Watch out, Varric. I’m getting quite good at this, these days._

 

Carver listens in the way he always has - loudly, with frequent interjections, and a lot of swearing. He never used to swear this much before he joined Cailan’s army, she’s pretty sure, and even the Wardens haven’t made it much better.

 

Of course she’s just as bad, so who is she to comment. He probably got it from her.

 

But when she gets to telling him about the Arbor Wilds and the Well of Sorrows, he goes quiet. He listens as she tells him how brave Merrill was, how strong and how wise, how she stood before the sentinels and before her Goddess and didn’t ever break for a moment.

 

He goes so quiet that Hawke wonders, then, if his clumsy way of flirting with her other best friend might have been a little more than just a crush.

 

“Carver,” she says, biting her lip. “Are you angry with me?”

 

“Angry?”

 

The word comes out as a soft, disbelieving breath. He shakes his head, sits forward, rests his arms on his knees. He shifts again, sitting back in his chair, changes position two, three more times before he says anything else.

 

“Sister, you have helped her get everything she ever wanted. How in Andraste’s name could I possibly be angry at you?”

 

Hawke smiles, softly, warmly.

 

“Stay for dinner,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “Varric will tell the rest of the story better than I could. You can see Bethany. And Merrill hasn’t left yet, either, you know.”

 

\---

 

A month later, Divine Victoria is elected by the College of Clerics.

 

“She looks ridiculous in that hat,” Varric murmurs to Hawke, as they applaud the Divine’s first presentation in Val Royeaux.

 

“That hat,” Hawke says, smiling at Leliana, “is going to help her change the world.”

 

Of course, losing Leliana has its consequences too - no one can deny that her work was invaluable, but none of her subordinates want to take over her position. Whether that’s personal preference or because her shoes are a bit too big to be filled, Hawke isn’t sure.

 

She tries asking Harding, but then a letter arrives from the Divine requesting Harding as her own aide - and, well, Hawke can’t exactly refuse the Divine a request, even if the Divine is her friend.

 

The next two weeks become a search for someone, anyone who could possibly replace her.

 

Hawke tries every person in Leliana’s office, twice. She tries Varric, who laughs at her and slaps her on the arm as if she’s said something hilarious. She even tries Dorian - he’s clever enough, and knows enough about intrigue, but she can’t really spare him from the important mission of trying to save her life.

 

And then, in the third week, a familiar purr comes from the doorway to the great hall, as Hawke stands sighing next to Varric’s desk.

 

“I hear you’re in need of a helping hand, sweet thing.”

 

Uncaring for the dozens of delegates watching her, Hawke crosses the distance to Isabela in seconds, scooping her around the waist and spinning her with a strength she can only really credit to motherhood.

 

“Ah!” Varric calls from behind them, with no hint of surprise in his voice. “You made it, Rivani!”

 

 _One day,_ Hawke vows, _I am going to punch that dwarf in his smug fucking face._

 

Isabela kisses her on the cheek and then swans over to Varric to do the same. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I hear you’ve gotten the whole gang back together.”

 

“Not all of them,” Hawke says, stoically not thinking about Fenris. Or Sebastian. “Aveline’s Viscount now, you know.”

 

“Maker, I bet she hates every second of that shithole. Oh, what am I saying? She loves it, of course. It suits her.”

 

“Isabela!” shrieks another voice. A clattering of feet and a few cries of, “Sorry, sorry!” follow Merril as she crashes her way through the crowd to them.

 

“Hello, kitten.”

 

Merrill comes to a stop next to her, bouncing there for a moment before hugging the other woman tightly. “I missed you! I didn’t know you were coming!”

 

“Well,” Isabela says, turning to smirk at Hawke, “I heard an old friend of mine had gone and put a fancy frock on, and left an even better friend of mine stranded at sea.”

 

Hawke’s mouth falls open. “You’re here to replace Leliana.”

 

“Sweet thing,” sighs Isabela, casting her head back. “No one could replace Leliana. You have no idea the things she can do with a single pinky finger.”

 

“Ooh, like kill someone?” Merrill grins.

 

“Yes, kitten. Like kill someone. Slowly. Just little deaths. Over, and over, and -”

 

“Isabela, is there a point to this?”

 

“There’s always a point if you’re lucky. You need someone who knows people. I know people. You need someone you can trust.”

 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “And you think I trust you?”

 

“I came back for you, sweet thing. I’ve never come back for seconds before.”

 

Studying her, Hawke weighs the risk. Isabela is here, which means she wants something, and that something almost certainly isn’t to magnanimously leap in during Hawke’s time of need. Even if that leap gives her the chance to make a dozen smutty comments.

 

“What happened to your ship?” Hawke asks, because if Isabela hasn’t gotten a ship in six years then she’ll eat Leliana’s incredibly ugly hat.

 

“Gone,” Isabela sighs. “Wrecked. By Qunari. _Again.”_

 

Varric snorts. “What did you take this time?”

 

“Nothing! For once, I am the wounded party. Innocent, even! I feel hideously clean.”

 

“Oh, Isabela,” croons Merrill, patting her on the arm. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Isabela shakes her head. “She had such a lovely prow, too. Elegant masts. A crew who didn’t try to bone me every night.”

 

“I want a guarantee that you’re not going to run off,” Hawke says, folding her arms. “I know what you’re like. You’ll get bored.”

 

“I’m flattered that you think a promise from me is worth it, sweet thing.”

 

“Five years.”

 

Isabela stares at her as if she’s grown a second head. “Five _years?_ You’ll be lucky if I give you two.”

 

“Five years,” Hawke says, stepping forward and lowering her voice, “and I’ll buy you a new ship.”

 

Reaching out, Isabela trails her fingertips down Hawke’s cheek. “Oh, Hawke. You do know me so very well.”

 

“It’s a deal, then?”

 

“It’s a deal.”

 

\---

 

In an unusual display of affection, Dorian sits her down next to him and places his hand on her shoulder. The library is mostly empty save for the three of them - Merrill stands across from them, leaning against a bookcase, a frown on her face.

 

“It’s only been a month!” he says, in a futile attempt at lightheartedness. “That’s nothing in research. And your condition hasn’t worsened.”

 

“Yet,” Hawke says.

 

“Ask that spirit of yours. You are talking to her again, I hope?”

 

_Just about._

 

_He is wrong, little bird. You are getting worse. It is simply happening slower than you might expect._

 

 _At least you’re being honest with me now,_ Hawke thinks. Compassion doesn’t reply.

 

“We’re talking,” Hawke says, sighing. “You really haven’t found anything?”

 

“The problem is, nothing’s ever happened like this before. We can’t just look up people who’ve had the Fade open up in their hands, Hawke. We’ve got to look for other things, sometimes things that don’t even make sense at all.” Merrill’s frown deepens. “It’s the same thing with the Well. I need to know what I’m asking them to get anything back.”

 

“Okay. Okay. We’ll keep looking. I’ll help. I’ve got more time, now Isabela’s here.”

 

“Hawke,” Merrill says, “you need to be with Bethany. With Anders and Cullen.”

 

She doesn’t say _whilst you still can,_ but Hawke hears it anyway.

 

“They have jobs. Bethany sleeps. I’m helping, Merrill.” Hawke stands up, patting Dorian’s hand gently as she does. “Or am I not still the most powerful mage here?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Merrill says, her frown breaking to reveal a small smile. “I think I might give you a run for your money, now. And I wouldn’t even need to use blood magic.”

 

\---

 

“To the Herald of Andraste and Leader of the Inquisition,” Josephine reads, the base of her clipboard perched atop her hip. “I confess myself surprised and pleased that you have upheld your side of our bargain, and for that I must express my gratitude.”

 

“I’m sure that’s painful,” Hawke mumbles.

 

“...but I regret to say that the pressures of my realm are only increasing. Owing to the closing of the Breach and the demise of Magister Corypheus, the Banns have come to accept the existence of the Inquisition insofar as it meets those ends. With those ends met, however, they are beginning to grow restless. I -”

 

“Josie,” Hawke says, cutting her off. “I don’t need to hear the things his advisors told him to say. How bad is it. Do I need to do anything? I could go to Denerim. Talk to him.”

 

Shaking her head, Josephine skims the rest of the letter. “It seems this is simply a caution for now, Inquisitor. I can explain the work which we are continuing, and...oh.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“There is a postscript,” Josephine says, her cheeks flushing. “The handwriting is different. It would seem his majesty has written it personally. For you.”

 

Clearing her throat, the Ambassador hands over the letter.

 

_PS: Of course, if you wanted to answer in person, you’re welcome to come join me for dinner. Bring Cullen! I understand the two of you are close. I’d like to see you together._

 

“Josie,” Hawke says, folding the letter closed, “I think you should probably forget you ever saw that.”

 

Josephine’s eyes gleam mischievously. “Certainly, Inquisitor.”

 

Feather-light, Hawke’s tongue reaches out to catch her bottom lip.

 

“For entirely unrelated reasons, I need to go and speak to the Commander.”

 

“Of course, Inquisitor. I will take care of the reply. To the rest of the letter.”

 

But Hawke doesn’t go to Cullen’s office - she goes to the infirmary, sits on Anders’s desk, and waits there until his patient is out of the room to casually read the letter out - in full, from the greeting all the way down to the postscript.

 

Lifting one hand, Anders reaches out and closes the door. “Let me see that.”

 

“No,” Hawke says, holding the letter back over her shoulder. “I want you to imagine it. His handwriting is so scruffy, but I think it shakes on the last few words, like he was on edge whilst he was writing it.”

 

“I bet he was,” Anders growls, stepping towards her.

 

Hawke lifts her other hand and summons a burst of magic that shoves him back against the door. “Oops. Silly me, that’ll be my magic going wild again. I guess you’ll have to stay there. Can’t risk it.” She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Would you like to know what _I_ think?”

 

Breathless from the force push, hair askew about his face, Anders looks at her intently. “Yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

She’s careful, of course, not to leave out any detail about how the King’s invitation could go. It’s important to be honest, after all.

 

\---

 

Things are going too well for comfort, but it still surprises Hawke when things get worse.

 

She expects news of an army moving, Ferelden or Orlais getting tired with them, the Qunari resurfacing, something going wrong in the Deep Roads, Carver bringing news of the Wardens. It isn’t any of those things. It’s another letter. Only this one isn’t from an old friend...not really.

 

“I am going to kill him,” Hawke snaps, feeling static course through her arms. “I am going to march to Starkhaven and rip his fucking arms off.”

 

“Alright, love, calm down,” Anders says, frowning and stepping closer. She thrusts the letter into his hands like it’s on fire, and he looks down. “Ah,” he says a moment later. “Well, I see Sebastian hasn’t changed.”

 

“Hasn’t changed? Anders, he’s a lunatic.”

 

“We knew that already, Hawke,” Varric points out, “he did march on Kirkwall to try and find the two of you, remember?”

 

Hawke remembers. She was too pregnant, too much of a mess of magic and hormones to help. She hadn’t been there for Aveline, for Varric, for all the people in Kirkwall who she’d come to feel responsible for. The home she hadn’t expected. It’s like she can feel the city around her even now, pale stones beneath her feet and chatter in her ears.

 

Cullen reaches out and rests a hand on her arm. He has gloves on; he probably can’t feel the charge. She hopes he can’t. “What does he want?” he asks, voice halfway between the Commander’s and a soft, comforting tone.

 

“Anders. He wants Anders.”

 

“Actually,” Anders says, cheerily, “he specifically wants my - what was it? Cold, dead body.”

 

Compassion’s aura is gone now; she didn’t mean to drop it, but something about the anger in her heart has made her let it go anyway. Hawke’s hands clench into fists and she lets out a huff of breath more like a growl.

 

“This,” she says, rounding on Anders in a flurry of sparks, “is _not funny.”_

 

“Of course it is. It’s not like you’re going to hand me over to him.”

 

The air is blurring around her now, like the space above a fire or the area around a Fade rift. “No, but they think I should. How could they not? You killed hundreds of innocent people, Anders, you should be fucking dead, the _only_ reason you’re alive is because I kept you that way, nothing I do will ever be enough to protect you, I can’t protect _any_ of you -”

 

“Marian,” Cullen calls in alarm, stumbling as the force of her magic pushes him back. She’s surrounded in a growing aura of power now, a sickly mixture of rich purple and pale green.

 

She doesn’t care. Anders still doesn’t understand, has never understood, she has given up the entire world for him and she is going to keep doing it and he just _doesn’t fucking get it._

 

“Inquisitor!”

 

The world becomes a brief glimpse of Cassandra’s anguished face, wreathed in blue - then there’s nothing but Hawke’s own screams.

 

\---

 

The first thing that comes back to Hawke is the bone-deep ache of her limbs. They feel like lead. They feel heavier than lead. She can feel the skin all over her body, as if it’s stretched taught. Her mouth is dry, her head foggy, and she suspects if she tries to move the room will be spinning.

 

Panic begins to creep into Hawke’s heart - but then she notices the second thing, the steadying thing, the fact that there are bodies pressed either side of her, holding both her and each other.

 

“She’s waking up,” Cullen says, his voice full of hope. “Marian? Hawke, can you hear me?”

 

The words she tries to say in reply are lost in a hoarse croaking - the body behind her shifts, and a moment later Anders is there with water that he tips carefully against her lips. Cold against her skin, the metal of the goblet gives it a tangy flavour that somehow helps her from gulping it down.

 

When her mouth no longer feels like it’s made of wool, Hawke tries again. “What happened?”

 

In her blurred vision, Hawke sees the two of them look at each other.

 

“You lost control of your magic,” Cullen says gently. “Cassandra...purged you.”

 

Anders bristles. “The woman’s a fucking menace, Cullen, she tore every scrap of magic out of Hawke. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

 

“Of course I don’t.”

 

“I - no. You don’t. I’m sorry, love, I just...I do. I do know what it - no, Hawke, don’t try to get up.”

 

She isn’t trying to get up, but body is so uncooperative it probably looks that way. All Hawke wants is for them to be quiet. To lower their voices. With effort, she manages to get one hand forward, reaching for Cullen. He draws her in at once, cradling her against his chest; it makes the spinning stop, just a little.

 

“Is it always this bad?” she asks, turning her head.

 

There’s a click as Anders returns the goblet to the side, a depression in the mattress as he lies down behind her again. He wraps one arm around her waist, and lies the other just over her head, running the fingers of that hand through Cullen’s hair.

 

“No,” Anders says, “and yes. It mostly depends on the strength of the Templar. Normally Seekers aren’t stronger, but then she’s not your average Seeker, and you’re not your average mage.”

 

A tiny, thin, painful shred of hope creeps into Hawke’s heart.

 

“Is the mark still…”

 

Cullen sighs. “Yes. We already checked.”

 

“I suppose that would’ve been too simple.” She focuses on shifting one hand down to Anders’s arm at her waist, resting it there. “I was unconscious?”

 

“For most of the day,” explains Anders, kissing the side of her neck. “Everyone’s alright. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

 

She winces, and that hurts almost as much as the thought that she had hurt people. Who else had been in the room? Even that is hard to remember. She can’t remember that, or what upset her, and Maker’s breath, it’s like being pregnant all over again.

 

Fuck, is she - no. No, she’s not. This is similar, but it’s not the same. She never lost control this much when she was pregnant, anyway. This is the opposite. She’s not bringing life into the world, the fucking anchor is taking it from her instead.

 

“...know my heart,” she says, the words coming not from Compassion this time, but from the depths of her own memory. “Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift from me a world of pain.”

 

The arms around her tighten, as Cullen finishes the Chant. “Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”

 

“If you’re expecting the next line from me,” Anders says after a moment, “you should know I always skipped Chantry school.”

 

“How do you remember so much of it? I...don’t take this the wrong way, Marian, but you’re not exactly the memorising type.”

 

Hawke closes her eyes. “We went to the Chantry every week for prayers. Father said it made us stand out too much if we didn’t. It was full of Templars, so Bethany and I were always terrified. Listening was the only way I could stop thinking about her crushing my hand in hers.”

 

“Sometimes,” Cullen says, “I’m astonished you ever tolerated me at all.”

 

She laughs, and that hurts, makes her ribs feel like they’re on fire. She doesn’t care. “You were a complete arse when we met you.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” grins Anders, his hand tightening in Cullen’s hair, “I thought it was quite sexy, the way he told us mages shouldn’t be treated like people.”

 

A low groan escapes Cullen’s throat. “I was an imbecile.”

 

“You were traumatised,” Hawke points out, pressing her lips to the gap in his shirt. “We’re not the first thing we think, Cullen. That thought belongs to the world. We’re the second thought, and the third, and the things we do based on them.”

 

“That and you discovered how much you like a mage’s cock in your -”

 

_“Anders.”_

 

“It’s true!”

 

“I know, it’s just that you’re very loud, and my head is intensely painful.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.”

 

“Perhaps,” Cullen says, not even trying to keep the fondness out of his voice, “we should sleep.”

 

\---

 

It takes Hawke three days to recover, and most of the morning after that to find Cassandra, who has evidently taken to hiding. Frankly, Hawke’s surprised she’s still here at all - she’s been on the cusp of leaving for weeks already. The fact that Cassandra hasn’t taken the opportunity to flee is one Hawke finds herself as grateful for as she is astonished by.

 

She finds the Seeker upstairs, in the building where they first talked about the Tranquil, where they uncovered all the terrible truths her Order had kept.

 

“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” Hawke asks, making Cassandra tense and reach for her sword. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d been quiet.”

 

“You are always quiet, Inquisitor,” sighs Cassandra. “I suppose it is a habit that you learned when people like me were hunting you down.”

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

Cassandra stands and spreads her hand before her. “Do what? Admit that I am not as righteous as I claim? That I am fallible? That I might hurt someone to save another, and in doing so commit a greater crime?”

 

Fast enough to give the Seeker no time to back away, Hawke steps over and grabs her by the hands. “Thank you.”

 

“...pardon?”

 

“Thank you. For purging me. Cassandra, if I had hurt anyone, I would never have forgiven myself, and -” Hawke bites her lip. “Cullen was right next to me. He told me how bad it was. I could have killed him. I might have, if it wasn’t for you.”

 

The self-loathing in Cassandra’s expression softens, and she admits, “I would never have let that happen.”

 

Hawke smiles. “You didn’t let it happen. So thank you.” Casting her head down, she looks at their joined hands. “It’s - it’s a terrible thing to do to a person, Cassandra. It hurts more than I can describe. But I trust you with it.”

 

“Too many people,” Cassandra says, with the weight of an understanding that has taken years to achieve, “should not be. Should never have been.”

 

“I think you struggled to see them because you were so good. Because those around you were too.”

 

Cassandra squeezes her hands, then lets them go and turns away. “And still, it is a failure that I did not.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Inquisitor, I must ask - your magic. As it troubles you more, now, have your dreams been troubled also?”

 

Laughing softly, Hawke replies, “That’s a very gentle way to ask if I’ve been tempted by demons recently.”

 

“I...did not know how to ask, before. I should have found a way.”

 

“They haven’t. Honestly, they...when I was in Kirkwall, it happened a lot. The Veil is thin there, too, and I was around temptations almost every day. Since this…” She holds up her gloved hand, looking at it with a frown. “They haven’t really come near me at all, in the Fade. I think it scares them off.”

 

“It is a strange comfort,” Cassandra agrees, shaking her head, “but I am glad of it nonetheless.”

 

\---

 

Weeks pass.

 

The days take on a gentle rhythm. They’re not always the same; now and then another Fade rift is found, and Hawke has to go off on another mission. But even that has its own pattern, too. Each time, the night before she goes, her strange family have dinner in Josephine’s office - it’s comfiest, and they adopted her long ago, when assassins tried to kill her and Hawke realised that even her Ambassador was human.

 

They put Bethany to bed in the room down the hall from Hawke’s, the construction finally finished. She’s old enough for her own bed now, she insists - but someone still stays in the room with her, just to be sure. Whenever Hawke goes away, it’s Varric or Merrill that does it, one of them snoring in the chair within seconds. Each time, Hawke has to tear herself away from the room to go back to hers.

 

One week it isn’t another Fade rift at all - it’s a call to help with quakes in the Deep Roads, and they could do with the better relations with Orzammar. The night before, Hawke sits in front of the fireplace in her bedroom, watching Cullen kiss his way down Anders’s chest, and only manages to push the worry out of her mind when he takes him into his mouth.

 

None of them ever say goodbye to each other. Goodbye isn’t something they talk about.

 

But after they’ve been in the Deep Roads for twenty-seven days, Hawke finds herself wishing she had said something, anything. When the nights in the tunnels get cold, Varric holds her against him, like they’re back in the tunnels under Kirkwall again and much, much younger.

 

The truth they find at the bottom of it, in the space so open Hawke can barely believe it’s underground, is much worse. Lyrium is the blood of a Titan, the caverns its body. There are so many questions. She can’t answer any of them. The world is a mess of things she doesn’t understand.

 

She travels home trapped in a single thought - that Cullen put lyrium into his body for years and years, the blood of a fucking Titan, blood that would have destroyed him. Why is it always blood? Why does something so simple have so much power over everything?

 

When she gets into Skyhold, she shoves her horse’s reins into Varric’s hands and sprints up to Cullen’s office, pushing him down into his chair without explanation. There are people calling for her downstairs and she stinks of the road and Hawke doesn’t care, can’t think of anything but taking him inside her and holding him close because nothing, nothing in the world makes sense.

 

She cries into his shoulder afterwards, still sat in his lap, sobbing the truth she doesn’t understand into his skin.

 

There are still more rifts to close.

 

They still hasn’t found anything to save her. 

 

Dorian leaves, called back to Tevinter, and Merrill becomes more and more busy with Morrigan every day. Blackwall vanishes, leaving only the revelation of his true identity in letters from the Divine’s Left Hand. Sera rejoins her friends, Cassandra goes to deal with the Seekers’ legacy, and Bull takes the Chargers back out, his contract complete. Cole is seen less, but never quite goes, still haunting Skyhold as Bethany’s invisible friend.

 

Weeks, little by leap by little, become months.

  



	6. Trespasser

“Do we really have to go through all this again?” Cullen grumbles, just loud enough for the three of them to hear.

 

On Hawke’s right, Josephine sighs - not with her expression; only her breath.

 

“Smile, Commander. We must present a unified Inquisition for the Exalted Council.”

 

“And I’d quite like it if we avoided reminding Hawke of all the things that can stress her mark, love,” Anders points out from behind them. He doesn’t leave her side, now; his magic is stronger, and though he still can’t heal he’s outstripped both Merrill and Hawke in how good his barriers are. Without Cassandra around, and with Cullen free of lyrium, Anders is her only defence if...something happens.

 

They all look the part, at least - Josephine has put everyone back in the uniforms they wore to Halamshiral the last time. Even Hawke is wearing one, though in the same blue that Dorian dressed her in rather than the red everyone else is resigned to. At the base of her left sleeve, the runes on her glove are blazing bright. Too bright. It’s starting to struggle, Dagna says.

 

Hawke knows what that feels like.

 

When they arrive, with all the fanfare of the Winter Palace’s usual manner, Hawke - and her ‘personal assistant’, like anyone is going to believe that, Anders’s face was plastered over Kirkwall for years - are brought through to the council room, which is empty of all but two familiar faces.

 

“Revered Mother!” Hawke calls, taking several quick steps forward to hug the smiling woman. Whether she’s meant to hug an ordained woman of the Chantry or not, Hawke doesn’t care.

 

“Good morning, your worship,” Gisele replies, returning the hug if not the informality.

 

“Inquisitor,” says the man beside her, bowing deeply. The years, Hawke notices, have not been kind to Chancellor Roderick. Still, when you already look like you’re constantly constipated anyway…

 

“I had no idea either of you would be here,” Hawke says, noticing that Anders has stepped back a little bit.

 

“Divine Justinia called us to join you,” Mother Gisele explains, “and we would not miss being with you when the fate of the Inquisition is decided.”

 

Ah.

 

That.

 

The difficulty isn’t knowing what she wants to do with the Inquisition. Hawke has known that since the moment Josephine told her what was happening. There is no question, none at all, that if Hawke can run away with her family and hide somewhere in the Ferelden countryside until the mark finally kills her, she’ll do it.

 

Except she lifted that sword. She made a promise. She has thousands of people depending upon her - she can’t just take upend their entire lives. They deserve better than her being her normal self again. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.

 

_ Nor is forcing yourself to stay in a life you do not want, little bird. _

 

_ It’s not like I’ve got much of it left. _

 

_ Oh, my darling… _

 

_ They’ll have nowhere to live. No jobs. Nothing. They would lose far more by the Inquisition disbanding than I do by keeping it. _

 

But when the Chancellor asks her what her feelings are, Hawke takes a deep breath and says, “I remember what you said, Revered Mother. About the Inquisition of old. About how they laid their swords down. It just isn’t easy.” 

 

“At times, Inquisitor, certainty and uncertainty come hand in hand.”

 

Hawke lowers her head and frowns. “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.”

 

Gisele smiles more softly, reaching out to touch Hawke’s shoulder. “You have been studying.”

 

“I’ve had help.”

 

Anders frowns - Hawke sees it just out of the corner of her eye, as he shifts uncomfortably. “After everything,” he says, quietly, “you still believe?”

 

She and Cullen have been careful not to talk about it in front of Anders. It didn’t seem right. Instead they’ve poured through copies of the Chant together whilst he’s slept. But there’s not a vast amount of surprise in Anders’s expression, either - so maybe they haven’t been as quiet as she thinks.

 

“Because of everything,” Hawke corrects, looking down at the vibrantly glowing runes in her glove. “The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world...she shall know true peace.”

 

“That peace,” Gisele says gently, looking between them, “does not only come when we die, Inquisitor. We may find that peace in life.”

 

Hawke bites her lip. “I doubt that, Revered Mother. I doubt that very much.”

 

\---

 

“Inquisitor, something quite unprecedented has happened, and I think that it is due to you.”

 

“If I had a gold piece for every time you’d said those words, Josephine, I’d be a very rich woman.”

 

“You  _ are _ a very rich woman, love,” Anders points out.

 

Hawke snorts a laugh. “Yes, well, we didn’t dig up all that ore for no reason. You were saying, Josie?”

 

“The King of Ferelden is here,” Josephine explains, her expression indicating that this is not at all normal. “In person.”

 

“I thought they were all just sending ambassadors?”

 

Josephine hugs her clipboard close to her chest with one hand, waving her quill with the other. “Everyone else  _ did _ , your worship. But King Alistair is here alongside his representative.”

 

“I think he fancies you,” Anders whispers loud enough for both Hawke and Josephine to hear - as well as several of Isabela’s nearby agents.

 

“You’re sure it’s  _ me?” _ Hawke replies much more quietly, before shaking her head. “No, that’s not it. It’s a declaration of strength. We’re in the Winter Palace, so Orlais already has more power. The Inquisition is seen as more Orlesian than it is Ferelden. He has to turn up himself in order to balance the scales.”

 

A small, delighted smile furls Josephine’s lips. “Inquisitor! You really have been listening.”

 

“Contrary to what everyone around me appears to think, I’m not wholly ignorant of politics. I just think it gets in the way of doing anything useful.”

 

“Politics, your worship, can be the most useful weapon of all,” Josephine remarks lightly, before replacing her smile. “I hope that you will enjoy the opportunity to see the rest of the Inquisition. Almost everyone has returned for the occasion. Oh, and perhaps, if you have a little time later on…”

 

That night, Hawke discovers that there is something more chaotic than Kirkwall during the Qunari invasion, and it’s Orlesian opera. Somehow, she ends up loving it for that very fact - and for the way that, finally, Josephine looks like she might be resting. Just a little. Just for a moment.

 

Whatever sets your jib flying, as Isabela would say.

 

\---

 

For the first few hours of their first full day in the Winter Palace, Hawke does as she’s told, and makes her way around the others. Sera is up to her usual tricks, the Chargers have her distract the Iron Bull with a long lecture about the history of spirit healers (which Bull has seen through before she’s even arrived), and Harding is doing whatever the Left Hand of the Divine does these days. Hawke suspects it’s...well, much the same thing she was doing before.

 

But there are a few surprises, too. Varric is not alone when she finds him by the fountain - he’s with a tall, redheaded woman in gleaming armour.

 

“Andraste’s knickerweasels,” Anders yells so loudly that several Orlesians start staring. “Aveline!”

 

The Guard Captain - no, Viscount - turns baleful eyes on Anders. “You.”

 

“Ah, yes, I suppose we’re not really friendly anymore.” He really does, Hawke thinks, look genuinely contrite. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

 

“Mm,” Aveline hums noncommittally, before holding a hand out to Hawke. “You look like shit.”

 

“Thanks, Aveline. You look like a Viscount.”

 

“Not for much longer, if I have any say in it,” the warrior grumbles, turning to look at Varric with a predatory gaze. “Someone’s been pouring a lot of money into restoration recently, and the nobility are starting to notice.”

 

“Now, Red,” Varric says in a tone halfway between placating and pleading, “let’s not be too hasty. I can do far more for Kirkwall from the Merchants’ Guild than I possibly could from your mighty chair.”

 

“Bullshit. And I’ve told you not to call me that.”

 

_ Maker, Aveline, I’ve missed you. _

 

She spends almost an hour there by the fountain with them, talking about things in Kirkwall, and Donnic and the kids, and Bethany, and everything except the fact that Hawke is dying.

 

“You didn’t tell her,” Anders says afterwards, taking her hand.

 

“When I’m with Aveline,” Hawke says, hearing her voice crack, “I just want to be strong. I even feel like I might be.”

 

“But not strong enough to tell her?”

 

“No. No one’s strong enough to hurt Aveline.”

 

He doesn’t let go of her hand on the walk down to the ledge where Cassandra is hiding from the crowds. He probably should do - Hawke can practically feel the people whispering behind them - but she can’t bring herself to care. She is both dying and potentially about to cast off the title that makes her everyone’s favourite target for gossip.

 

They talk to the new Lord Seeker - because Cassandra has point blank refused to be called Lady Seeker - about her work to free the Tranquil, something that has thus far mostly consisted of rallying the Seekers and telling them the horrible truth. Predictably, she follows this up with fifty questions about Hawke’s conditions - two thirds of which are directed at Anders, not her - up to and including discussion of the last time demons tried to tempt her.

 

They still haven’t. Hawke wonders if she should be worried. Maybe she’s too much of a ticking time bomb even for demons to fuck with.

 

On the walk back to the centre of Halamshiral, she’s much quieter. Anders still doesn’t let go of her hand.

 

Her right hand. 

 

The left is vibrating now, its hum loud enough that you can hear it if you hold it close to your ear.

 

\---

 

Then they find Cullen with a mabari, and Hawke bursts into tears, drawing the attention of half a dozen Orlesians.

 

She hasn’t thought about Whisper for years, now. When she got him, everyone said that imprinting would change him. They hadn’t mentioned that it would change her, too. She remembers watching him charge off behind them, chasing off the soldiers that she was relatively sure were Sebastian’s, but had never confirmed.

 

She remembers feeling it, not seeing it, when his body crumpled to the ground.

 

The mabari in front of her isn’t like Whisper. Whisper had faint lines of darker fur along his coat, like rippling shadows in the brown. This one is perfectly smooth and even, and clearly a good deal younger than Whisper was when he -

 

“Marian,” Cullen says. He’s so close. When did he start holding her? She doesn’t remember. Her hand is humming. “Are you alright?”

 

Wordlessly, Hawke slips out of his arms and kneels down, putting her face on a level with the mabari’s. She inclines her head, and holds out her right hand, palm upwards. “Present,” she snaps, voice hard.

 

The mabari sits down, his wagging tail going still, spine straightening as he sits tall and plants his chin on her hand. He even stops panting, eyes locking with hers, wide pools of fathomless brown.

 

“You hesitated,” Hawke tells him, shaking her head. “You’re trained, but badly commanded.”

 

Cullen kneels down beside her. “He’s a stray. Some noble got bored of him, I think.”

 

“Bored? Of a  _ mabari?”  _ Hawke grimaces, and begins examining the dog’s teeth. “These are blunt, boy, are they even letting you chew anything?”

 

The dog whines pitifully.

 

“I’ll take that as a no. He’s not painted either. You poor thing, they’ve been keeping you for posing with, haven’t they?” She ruffles the dog’s head and orders, “Rest.”

 

He immediately begins wagging his tail again, jumping up and headbutting Cullen’s chest. The smile that lights up Cullen’s face makes her heart break almost as much as thinking about Whisper does.

 

“He’s majestic,” Cullen says, producing a piece of rope and holding it out for the mabari to play with. “I hate Orlesians.”

 

“I don’t think he’s even imprinted,” Hawke says, scrubbing at her eyes. “I could show you how to, if you want.”

 

Anders sits down on the floor next to them and raises his eyebrows. “So, we’re dog thieves now?”

 

“Liberators,” Cullen corrects, straining to hold his own in the tug of war with the mabari. “You should take him, Hawke. You know what you’re doing.”

 

Even the suggestion hurts her.  _ It’s alright, little bird,  _ Compassion murmurs comfortingly in her mind, the aura seeming to warm with the vibration of her hand.

 

“I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, Cullen,” Hawke says quietly. “And even if I was...I don’t know that I could do it. I couldn’t replace Whisper.”

 

Cullen drops the rope, letting the dog have his triumph, and slips his arm around her waist. “Then,” he says, “I would like to know how.”

 

They take the mabari out into the courtyards by the servants’ quarters, and Hawke talks Cullen through the process of imprinting him. There’s only one more night before she has to greet all of the ambassadors - they spend it in front of the fire in Hawke and Anders’s room, the dog sprawled out next to them, tongue lolling happily.

 

“What will you call him?” Anders asks, running his fingers through Cullen’s hair.

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

“Brutaliser is an excellent name,” Anders pronounces.

 

Hawke rolls her eyes. “Anders, you’re named after the place your dad came from. You don’t get to recommend names.”

 

“Correction,” Anders says, stretching languidly, “I’m named after a mountain range because when I was enslaved, I didn’t like speaking to my captors. Funny, that.”

 

Cullen looks at him. “What  _ was _ your name?”

 

“Don’t remember.”

 

“You said that way too fast for me to believe you,” Hawke says, but she frowns. “You don’t have to tell us.”

 

“I know, love,” Anders says, reaching out and brushing her hair back into place. “And I’m not going to. I don’t ever want to pretend I’m not what they made me. I’m not going to cling to a person they destroyed.”

 

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so she kisses him instead.

 

\---

 

The only thing more awkward than meeting an ambassadorial contingent, Hawke discovers, is meeting them when the ambassador is someone whose father you murdered after stealing from him on behalf of the Qun. The only thing more awkward than  _ that _ is discovering that the ambassador’s aide is the Enchanter who once called your healing spirit a demon.

 

Both Cyril and Vivienne look at her with baleful stares.

 

Hawke gets herself out of that conversation very, very quickly with a polite, “If you’ll excuse me, I understand that his majesty the King of Ferelden came here personally, and frankly I probably should have said hello to him first.”

 

She takes Anders’s arm and walks quickly in that direction before Vivienne can say so much as half a barbed, sarcastic word.

 

But the former Enchanter isn’t the only one who wants to say their piece. As soon as they get up to the Ferelden section of the balcony, where Alistair stands wearily in not-quite-ceremonial armour, the Arl at his side turns towards her and puffs himself up.

 

“There you are. It’s about time you showed your face.”

 

“Actually,” Hawke says politely, bowing to Alistair at the same time, “today is the official greeting day, so you’ll find I’m perfectly on time. If I owe any apology, it’s for greeting the Orlesians first, but they are our hosts. Good morning, your majesty.”

 

“Inquisitor. I did tell you there was only so much I could do to shackle the hounds.”

 

“It’s really quite impressive you managed for so long,” Anders remarks, smirking and leaning against the low balcony wall. “What’s your secret? Sleeping pills in the wine? No, just an excessive amount of wine. No, a series of ‘most ferocious mabari in Ferelden’ contests, that'll draw the crowds. Wait, no, I’ve got it - really aggressive farting in the middle of meetings.”

 

Alistair tilts his head to the side and considers Anders. “This,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “is the darkest mirror.”

 

“And completely off topic,” Teagan snaps, folding his arms. “We are here to demand a removal of your forces from Ferelden lands.”

 

Hawke clears her throat. “First of all, that would be ‘your forces from Ferelden lands, your worship’.” She smiles lightly. “Secondly, I agree. An army of this size, living on Ferelden soil? Loyal to no sovereign? It’s really quite impossible to ignore.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

A grin curls Alistair’s lips. “And what do you plan to do about it,  _ your worship?” _

 

“That,” Hawke says, folding her left hand behind her back, “would be what we’re here to find out.”

 

“Well, if you’d like some advice, I’m sure my uncle would be happy to spout a great deal of it at you. If you want to actually get a word in, I’ll remind you that you still owe me dinner.”

 

“Really? I thought you promised us dinner. I guess people from Ferelden really are stingy.”

 

Anders snorts a laugh.  _ “You’re _ from Ferelden, love.”

 

“I,” Hawke says with a mixture of false imperiousness and genuine sincerity, “am from Kirkwall.”

 

They leave quickly after that, before Teagan can start ranting about getting off topic again. The next stop is to the Divine herself, instantly recognisable by her ridiculous hat, for an update that is at once too brief and too detailed. The red in Leliana’s outfit clashes with her hair, a fact that Anders is keen to point out, and leaves them laughing at a rant from Leliana about the shoes she’s now forced to wear.

 

Hawke doesn’t realise it’s the last bit of normality she’ll get for some time.

 

\---

 

“It wasn’t me,” Isabela says, as Hawke looks past her to see the body of a Qunari slumped against a wall. “Or about me. Or because of me. For once, I am a wholly innocent party.”

 

“Why,” Hawke says softly, trying to suppress the growing vibration in her left hand, “is there a dead Qunari assassin in the Winter Palace, Bela?”

 

When Isabela has no answer, they follow the blood. This time it’s Hawke climbing a trellis in the Winter Palace, a fact that stabs a painful memory into her chest given that Anders is climbing the vine-wreathed wood with her - but the similarities end there.

 

Because last time, there  _ definitely  _ wasn’t an eluvian.

 

“Fuck,” Hawke says, looking at its shifting surface. “We need to get Merrill.”

 

She lifts her hand towards it, watching the water-like substance shift in response - and winces, violently, as something in her hand  _ twists _ .

 

“And Cassandra,” Anders declares, his hands immediately glowing with the beginnings of a barrier. “And Varric.”

 

“Cassandra is incase I get really bad,” Hawke grumbles, as they turn to head back to the others. “What’s Varric for?”

 

Anders glances at her. “He’s the only person who can calm you down.”

 

“You calm me down. So does Cullen.”

 

“No, love. We agitate you. It’s why you like us.”

 

Hawke tries to laugh; it just makes the vibration in her hand worse.

 

They pick up Merrill, Cassandra and Varric. The sensation of going through an Eluvian isn’t one you forget - only this time, it doesn’t just trickle down her spine like it did before. It rolls through every inch of her left hand, as if for a moment she could feel all of the nerves in her hand. Everyone notices her wince.

 

As soon as they step onto stone, Hawke recognises the sensation of Compassion being closer straight away. Turning to the others, Merrill explains that this is the Crossroads, where Morrigan brought them - but, perhaps, not the same part of it.

 

“The mirrors are all open,” she says when they reach the first Eluvian, her eyes widening with a mixture of delight and alarm. “Hawke, they’ve got no keys!”

 

Hawke frowns. “Or someone opened them all already. And left them like that.”

 

“That doesn’t seem very safe,” Merrill agrees, echoing her frown.

 

“Daisy,” Varric says, “I doubt whoever’s doing this cares about safety.”

 

After that, things start to become a blur.

 

Hawke knows they’re chasing Qunari - she recognises the armour of their warriors, remembers flashes of Qunari pouring through the streets of Kirkwall, remembers a blade thicker than her arm holding her several feet from the floor. Her hand hurts, so badly that she can feel Compassion wincing in sympathy.

 

They’re chasing the Qunari, and the Qunari are fighting some strange purple apparition, but any more than that she can’t make out. Her hand hurts. The next thing she notices, Merrill is speaking in elven so thick that Hawke can’t make sense of so much as a word. There are spiritual figures standing in front of them - they nod, and bow to the Dalish woman, and fade away.

 

Hawke jars back into reality the moment she hears Merrill’s soft, astonished gasp.

 

“But...that doesn’t make any sense,” Merrill cries, turning to look behind her. “Look at this.”

 

She traces her slender fingers over words that Hawke forces to go into her mind. A welcome - and the truth that has made Merrill look like like she’s watching her Keeper die all over again.

 

“Fen’Harel,” Hawke says, frowning. “Isn’t that your betrayer god?”

 

“Yes. But that’s not the problem, Hawke, the problem is that the People kept  _ slaves.” _

 

“You believe it?”

 

“I…” Merrill holds one hand to her cheek. “They aren’t saying it’s wrong.”

 

“Come on, Daisy,” Varric sighs, reaching up to rub her back. “We’ve gotta keep going, or we’ll lose them.”

 

The nervous look doesn’t leave Merrill’s face as they move on.

 

They find paintings that remind them of Solas’s rotunda, and a mural that claims Fen’Harel is not a god at all. Even worse, that the Evanuris themselves were not gods. Hawke watches each mural’s message play across Merrill’s heart, the horror realised in every inch of her face.

 

But it’s Cassandra who surprises them all, reaching out and placing a steady hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “It is not faith if it exists without question,” she says, smiling gently.

 

Hawke thinks about the skin on her left hand, about how it feels like it’s stretched so tight over her bones that she can’t move it. She thinks about Justinia’s face lit up by flickering green light. She thinks about Bethany.

 

_ Hush, little bird. All will be well. _

 

_ You don’t know that. _

 

_ No. I do not. But sometimes, it is good to be lied to. _

 

“If they weren’t gods,” Merrill says, slowly, hesitantly, “it would make much more sense, in many ways.” She’s hurting, but she’s standing tall, and Hawke has never been more proud of her. “If this is all true, I...I can understand why…”

 

Cassandra squeezes Merrill’s shoulder. “What do you believe?”

 

“I believe,” Merrill says softly, “that it’s possible I’m wrong. About  _ everything.” _

 

“What does the crowd in your head believe?” Varric asks.

 

Merrill laughs. “Oh, you know. A lot of things, really.”

 

“But it still hurts,” Hawke says, pressing the thumb of her right hand into the palm of her left. "Not knowing."

 

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

 

\---

 

Hawke’s glove shatters.

 

The pieces splay impossibly around her, not scattering over the ground but instead drifting to hover in the air, as if frozen in time. Even the glyphs that once glowed within them remain; constellations of afterimages that surround her with pale green light.

 

The blast sends everyone else, friend and foe, scattering against the walls.

 

In her mind, Hawke hears Compassion screaming, but there’s nothing she can do, the pain is too much for her to focus on anything else, even something as simple as dropping the aura connecting them seems utterly impossible.

 

_ Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts. _

 

The pain is like no other pain she’s ever endured. It’s like being run through by the Arishok at the same time as Anders blows up the Chantry. It’s like watching Bethany die and being Bethany dying at the same time. It’s like holding Mother’s head in her hands, sewn onto a body made of a dozen other bodies, feeling every stitch as if they were in her own throat.

 

A spear scrapes over her side and rips it open and in a strange, terrible way, Hawke is grateful. She opens her eyes, snaps back in, and lifts the mark up. If it’s going to tear her open, she’s going to use it.

 

The second blast sears skin from the bodies of the soldiers that charge towards her, their roars somehow quieter than the terrible thrumming that runs through her entire arm. She can feel every joint, every muscle, every nerve.

 

Hawke forgets everything but the fight. It’s better that way.

 

With three dozen Qunari down, she realises that she hasn’t dropped Compassion’s aura - as a chain of lightning sears out from her fingers and jumps between three of them. This should be impossible. Destruction is anathema to everything Compassion is.

 

_ What’s happening? _

 

_ I do not know, little bird. But it hurts. _

 

Panic rising in her chest, the vibration in her hand worsening, Hawke tries to drop the aura - and tries again, and again, and nothing happens, nothing at all, she cannot free Compassion from her pain.

 

Anders’s arms are around her, and so is his barrier - Cassandra is there too.  _ Purge me, _ Hawke wants to say.  _ Purge me and it might save her.  _ But the last time it knocked her out for days, and she could be too powerful now even for Cassandra to help. It’s too late. Whatever she’s done to Compassion, she can’t undo.

 

Merrill’s voice reaches her distantly, like a whisper from another room.

 

“It shows Fen’Harel removing their vallaslin. They’re slave markings. Oh, Creators - if that’s true…”

 

Everyone is silent as they help Hawke back to the Winter Palace.

 

\---

 

“Do you think it’s retaliation for Kirkwall?” Cullen asks, turning to look at Isabela.

 

The pirate shrugs. “Seems unlikely. They quite like Hawke, you know, in their strange way. If they’d wanted her dead, they would’ve done it years ago. No offence, sweet thing.”

 

“None taken,” Hawke says emptily, looking at her left hand. It hasn’t stopped flickering since her glove shattered. She should have had Dagna make a spare. Why didn’t she have Dagna make a spare?

 

But no. It wouldn’t have been enough.

 

She can feel the vibration in her shoulder joint now, and the only reason her arm is still is that she’s pinned it to her legs with her other hand. Her fingers are shaking regardless.

 

“Look,” she says, into the silence. “We don’t...have much time. You need -”

 

Through the pain, Hawke thinks about how glad she is that Bethany isn’t here to see her like this. That she’s safe at Skyhold. The thought surfs skittishly over the waves of her agony, her body tense as she tries desperately to hold her left arm in place.

 

“Marian,” Cullen says, stepping towards her, “there must be something Anders can do. Or Merrill. We can take care of this.”

 

“No, you can’t.”

 

“Josephine and I -”

 

“Are not in charge of this Inquisition, Commander,” Hawke snaps, hating herself for it. She eschews pulling herself pointedly to her feet and, instead, turns to look at Josephine. “You’ve had to tell the Orlesians some of this, yes? It’s their building.”

 

Josephine nods. “I have, Inquisitor, though I have told them as little as possible.”

 

“That changes now. Tell them everything. Isabela, go and get Alistair, Dorian and Aveline, please.”

 

“Hawke,” Isabela frowns, “sweet thing, this is a terrible idea. You know how I feel about honesty.”

 

“Do not make me order you, Bela, because I swear to the fucking Maker I will.”

 

“Fine.”

 

In the flutter of Isabela's wake, Cullen steps closer, arms folded over his chest. “You should get up.”

 

“No. No, let them see me like this. Let them understand. No more lies, Cullen. I can’t do it. Not anymore.”

 

He lets his arms drop, reaching out to push sweaty locks of hair away from her forehead. “Alright,” he says softly, before standing next to her. “Truth it is.”

 

Anders falls into place on her other side, weaving a near-constant barrier that fails to contain the flickering of her hand, and they meet the representatives like that, with sparks flying from Hawke’s shaking hands.

 

\---

 

“Well, shit,” Varric says, staring at Ser Jerran in astonishment. “Good thing you told the others, Hawke, they’d’ve had a field day if we’d hidden this.”

 

“Get out of here, Jerran,” Hawke says, her face flickering with the light of her hand. “Quick as you can.”

 

“Thank you, Champion. I - I am sorry.”

 

“Tell that to the city your new people invaded. Get the fuck out of here.”

 

He isn’t fast enough, but it isn’t the gaatlok explosion that kills him - it’s the people who he took as his allies. The worst thing, Hawke thinks to herself as she dives away from the next blast, is that she thinks Javaris might’ve been right about how important this stuff is after all.

 

More than right.

 

Because as soon as they get back, covered in soot and lyrium dust that’s congealed with blood, the ambassadors are standing by an Inquisition soldier who’s attacked an Orlesian servant. But that’s not what Hawke cares about. What she cares about is the barrel behind them.

 

_ Oh, little bird. No. Quickly, we must get them out of here, all of them! _

 

_ I know. I know. Right. Okay. _

 

Summoning all of her acting skill, Hawke fakes a surge in her mark - it isn’t hard - and stumbles to the side, toppling into Aveline’s arms.

 

“It’s not wine, it’s gaatlok,” she gasps into the Viscount’s ear, before letting the other woman haul her up to her feet.

 

“Easy there, Hawke,” Aveline says, righting her and nodding intently. “We’ll sort this out. You find what’s caused this.”

 

“I can help answer that.”

 

“Of course you can, whore.”

 

Isabela smiles winningly at Aveline, and holds up a note. “My Qunlat is a little rusty, but I think you’d like to hear this, Hawke. Come on.”

 

Trusting Aveline to deal with explosives that could be primed and ready to kill everyone in the Winter Palace, Hawke lets Isabela lead her away.

 

Maker.

 

The Qunari being back makes her wish for the days when she was just the Inquisitor. When it was about closing rifts and dealing with the Chantry’s bloody secrets and history, not her own. Not a second Kirkwall.

 

“Fuck this,” Hawke says, when Isabela finishes translating. “I’m going to find this Viddasala and show her exactly what war with the Inquisition looks like.”

 

\---

 

Hawke has always loved libraries.

 

No one has ever believed this, because she’s spent so much of her life not in a library, but there’s something about being surrounded by knowledge that she finds comforting. As if nothing could go truly wrong, so long as you had all of the answers at your fingertips.

 

Vir Dirthala likely contains more answers than any library in the mortal world. And Hawke hates every second that she’s there. She hates the paintings that remind her of Solas, who abandoned her, who could probably have stopped the mark from killing her - or slowed it, at least. Given her more time with Bethany. With Cullen and with Anders. With her family.

 

She hates walkways that remind her of being trapped in the Fade, she hates trees glowing with elven magic that make her arm feel like it’s being torn in two, and she hates that through all of it Merrill is smiling. Not because Merrill shouldn’t be enraptured by the history of her People; because Hawke can’t take a moment to appreciate it at all.

 

They learn that Fen’Harel created the Veil, that the People’s empire collapsed as a result, that he did betray them even if not in the way that they thought. Hawke wants to give Merrill a thousand lifetimes in this library, wants to let her hunt every secret and every truth down until she knows the very soul of her People. She doesn’t get the choice.

 

They descend back down the stairs after raising the last of the bridge, and ethereal figures rise up around them.

 

As soon as one of them slashes into Varric’s side, Hawke feels all of the emotions surging in her chest rush down her arm, into her hand, her hand that shoots involuntarily above her head and sends out a wave of energy so intense that the creatures - the librarians - shatter into pieces just like her glove did.

 

But it doesn’t just hurt them.

 

Merrill and Anders try to put barriers up, but they’re too slow - the energy from the mark throws them both to the ground, sends Cassandra stumbling, and makes Varric’s grunt of pain turn into a hoarse scream.

 

_ Nononono, _ Hawke sobs, her voice an echo of Compassion’s. She can fix this. She can fix this.

 

The spell to heal them all comes easily, so easily, as if Compassion were right next to her, as if they were in the Fade again. Only the magic isn’t its usual pale hue - it’s interlaced with jagged rents of green energy, crackles of purple lightning, and a silvery edge that reminds her of the aura as it plays upon her skin.

 

_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

 

She doesn’t know who’s screaming anymore.

 

\---

 

“You,” Viddasala says, one hand running protectively over the tome strapped to her arm, "are the root of all that is wrong with humanity, Champion.”

 

Hawke has long since given up on coincidences. She accepts, now, that everything that takes place in her life is interconnected, and really when you think of it like that, is it so much of a surprise that Viddasala has the Tome of Koslun on her fucking  _ arm? _

 

She’s had enough.

 

But the blast of energy she lets through the mark, the blast that’s been building since they started to chase over the newly made bridge, doesn’t reach far enough. Viddasala escapes, and Hawke is left watching the Qunari around her as - horrified - they disintegrate into lumps, then dust, then nothingness.

 

Barriers crackle over Hawke, and she barely notices voices around her, let alone makes sense of them. The library becomes the Crossroads becomes the Winter Palace becomes the chamber where the council have gathered to watch her die.

 

Anders is clinging to her good arm, Cullen is holding her face in his hands, and Hawke can’t pull words out of her mouth. They stick on her tongue like Bethany’s hair stuck in the pool of blood she died in.

 

_ Talk to them, little bird. Tell them that you love them. Do not lose another chance to let them know. _

 

But she can’t.

 

This, like so many other things, is another way that Hawke is failing them.

 

She will not fail  _ everyone. _

 

“I’m going to the Darvaraad,” she says, pulling herself to her feet. Voices rise in denial - everyone, from Cullen and Anders all the way through to the Divine herself. Hawke ignores them. “I caused this. I am not fucking dying and leaving a war for all of you to sort out. I’m not. I’m going.”

 

“No,” Cassandra says, stepping in front of Hawke as she wrests herself away. “I will not allow it.”

 

“I won’t give you the choice,” Hawke says, holding up her left arm - her left arm which is now entirely subsumed by crackling green light.

 

Cassandra grits her teeth. Hawke feels the force of her purge like a sudden push of air, like the outermost ripple of an explosion. It crashes into her and dampens the light in her arm - but doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t do anything to her magic at all. Cassandra's eyes widen in astonishment; in horror.

 

“Help me,” Hawke says, not looking behind her, not thinking about the people she’s breaking,  _ Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t _ , “or get out of my way.”

 

\---

 

“Morrigan found my work,” Merrill says, looking at the graveyard of broken eluvian. “What if the Qunari found it too? We know the elves from Kirkwall were the leak. Maybe they sold her parts. Maybe - maybe this is all my fault.”

 

Hawke raises her hand and grimaces. “Nothing is ever one person’s fault, Merrill,” she says, in a voice that isn’t quite her own.

 

“Your eyes are blue, love,” Anders says, his voice hoarse. He still hasn’t left her. He should. She left him.

 

Snarling, Hawke summons veilfire and starts hurling it at every Qunari who so much as looks at her. At barrels of gaatlok that obliterate the nearby forces in hideous flame. At Viddasala, who escapes again - at her dragon, who didn’t deserve this, but Hawke can barely hear Compassion anymore, can barely think, she doesn’t have enough  _ time. _

 

“You,” Viddasala says, “will do just as Fen’Harel has done. You will be the betrayer to end all betrayers.”

 

“The Inquisition is better than that,” Hawke insists.  _ Blessed are the righteous. Blessed are the lights - _

 

Viddasala laughs, and tears her belief asunder with the truth of Solas’s actions. Just like before, right from under her nose, someone that Hawke trusted has never been trustworthy for a second.

 

There is nothing but the thrum of her own heartbeat in her ears, the crackle of the skin that feels like it’s tight over her bones. Time. She never has enough time.

 

“What do I do?” she says, when Viddasala has gone through the eluvian.

 

Merrill reaches out and, fearlessly, rests a hand on her left shoulder. “He can save you, lethallan. We have to save him, no matter what he’s done.”

 

“Filthy lying elf,” Cassandra snarls, clenching her fist around her sword. “He should die for this. We should let her kill him.”

 

“But that would  _ kill Hawke,"   _ Varric yells, pacing the words apart as if explaining to a disobedient child.

 

The rest of their argument breaks off Hawke like water on the rocks. Another hand reaches for her; traces a line down the side of her face. Fingers perpetually wrinkled and tacky from too much blood. She hopes it’s hers.

 

“Hawke,” Anders whispers, “please. Don’t make me tell him you’re dead. Don't make me tell _her._ I can’t.”

 

Hawke bites her lip.

 

And steps through the eluvian.

 

\---

 

The vibration is no longer contained to her arm; it’s through her entire body. She can feel magic coursing through everything that she is. It’s exhilarating. It’s intoxicating. It feels like she’s taken every drug available at the Hanged Man at once and then jumped off a cliff for good measure.

 

Sometimes, Compassion has told her, the greatest mercy is death.

 

But what Hawke does to the Qunari that stand between her and Viddasala, between her and Solas, between her and a chance to not abandon her daughter, between her and the last shred of her hope, is not mercy. It is vengeance.

 

She calls all of the power at her fingertips - all of the power given to serve her, all of the power that must never be turned against the Maker’s children, she turns upon her enemies. She is the Herald of Andraste. She is worthy. She is righteous. There is but one Truth, and it is the judgement of the Maker’s bride.

 

What Corypheus wished to do to the world, Hawke does to the Qunari; she tears them asunder.

 

It makes her legs stumble and give way and it makes the others look at her the way people used to look at Anders and she does not care, she does not care, because

 

_ BethanyBethanyBethany _

 

she will get through this fight and reach the man who has betrayed her no matter what she will

 

_ knowtruepeaceunshakenbythedarkness _

 

stand against those who would end the world, destroy the Maker’s gift, she will not let them take the freedom that Andraste died for.

 

_ thelightshallleadmesafelythrough _

 

She held a sword aloft. She made a promise. Protect the world from those who would seek to break it. If she breaks this promise, she is nothing. Hawke scatters wave after wave of Qunari, keeping far enough from the others that when the mark bursts in chaotic energy they are safe

 

_ thepathsofthisworldandintothenext _

 

and oh how it bursts, making pain seem like something that is happening to every moment she’s ever lived all at once, the world nothing but green lightning leaping from her fingertips, Veilfire cascading over her skin, the Fade here and too close, too close, and Hawke lets it through anyway.

 

_ forshewhotrustsintheMakerfireis _

 

She does not need a demon to tempt her. This is enough. This mark is her demon, that is why they have stayed away from her, she has already been given all the temptation she ever needed, by the hand of the Maker itself, she is going to save everyone  _ no matter what the cost is _ she is going to save them the only thing that matters is their lives everyone's lives everyone has to live no matter what it does to her.

 

_ fireis _

 

_ fire _

 

_ is _

 

Dust, all that remains of Saarath, cascades around her like the first snow.

 

“You are the fire at the heart of the world,” Hawke whispers, holding her hands to catch the ashes, “and comfort is only Yours to give.”

 

\---

 

They pull Hawke past dozens of stone Qunari, up to the top of the rise, where the Viddasala has charged after Solas.

 

He turns to look at her, his eyes flashing bright, and the Qunari turns to stone.

 

Everything goes black, then, as if he had turned Hawke to stone as well. No, not black - green, green, everything is formless and Fade-touched and she has no body anymore, she is just floating, floating,  _ whereareyouCompassionareyouokay?! _

 

“...no. You can’t be! It makes no - oh, Creators, it does, it makes sense, it...did she know? Asha’bellanar? Did she know it was you?”

 

“I am not like her.”

 

There is ground underneath Hawke, and it is hard, stony, but she is being held in arms that feel like home. The vibration is up to her collarbone. Somewhere, she can hear someone screaming, but there is no fighting going on anymore.

 

_ Little bird? Little bird, it’s so quiet. Are you there? Little bird? _

 

Hawke calls out to Compassion, whose voice seems far away and so very small, but...nothing.

 

She opens the eyes she had forgotten she had, and looks up to see Solas - dressed in a way that she doesn’t remember, but recognises as so very elven - stood opposite a furious, tense Merrill.

 

“Then explain to me why you did it. Why did you create the Veil?”

 

Merrill’s question is ridiculous, because no one person can have created the Veil - no, those murals said that Fen’Harel created the Veil, they said…

 

_ Oh Maker fucking damnit. _

 

Dazed and dying and discombobulated by a reality she still doesn’t understand, Hawke listens to Solas as he calmly, logically justifies destroying an entire world. And wanting to do it again. She watches Merrill’s face, watches the anger drain out of it, replaced by something else.

 

“So,” Solas says, spreading his hands before him. “There you are.”

 

Merrill nods, and falls silent. “Alright. Well, in that case, I forgive you.”

 

Solas tilts his head to the side, but makes no reply.

 

“You loved Mythal. You lost her. Of course you did something terrible. I think she would want me to forgive you, and so I do.”

 

“Just like that?” Solas asks, half smiling.

 

Merrill nods again. “Yes. She loves you too, I think. That is enough.”

 

_ Merrill, have you gone absolutely fucking insane? _

 

"Of course," Merrill continues, her voice becoming a little too light, "that doesn't change the fact that what you're doing is wrong."

 

“I will give you what you have wished for, Chosen of Mythal,” Solas says, taking a prowling step towards her. “The People restored, reunited, resurgent within this broken world.”

 

“I know,” Merrill says, and she smiles - her smile sad, and small. “But at what price? There’s always a price.”

 

“Their lives,” Solas says, sweeping a hand out. He gestures to Hawke and Anders, to Varric, to Cassandra, all of whom appear to be shocked into silence.

 

_ At least he's honest. Finally. _

 

“Well, if you ask me, that’s a pretty terrible price,” Merrill pronounces, before rounding on him again. “In fact, I think it’s a pretty  _ evil  _ price. You know, I think you’re really just like all those templars in Kirkwall, who thought we weren’t people just because we didn’t have magic. You think they’re not people just because they’re not of the People, don’t you?”

 

Solas inclines his head. “They are an accident. An interesting accident. But an accident nonetheless. This is not their world; it is ours.”

 

“You know,” Hawke laughs, darkly, “she’s right. I’ve been -” a cough, hoarse and coppery with blood “- told that before.”

 

Anders’s arms tighten around her. “That’s enough,” he snaps, panic audible in his voice. “Fix her. You can do it, yes? This is  _ your  _ mark. Fix this.”

 

It’s his - oh. Yes. The orb. Elven, he’d said. How much of what’s happened to her is his fault, exactly?

 

“No. No, I don’t want his help, Anders.”

 

Anders shakes her, spinning her to look at him. “What? Hawke, you’re barely breathing, your pulse is -”

 

“He’s going to kill Bethany. I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

 

The words come out so harshly that they make her throat hurt, and she lifts her eyes to look unshakingly at Solas’s. His placid expression withers then, turning into an ugly mask of rage, as if he had only just noticed she was there at all.

 

“You have already done far worse,” Solas seethes, gesturing to her hand. “You have destroyed something far more vital than a mortal life.”

 

“...what?”

 

“Your spirit. She is trapped within the mark. You have called her, again and again, whilst it kept the way open to the Fade.”

 

“No. No, that’s not true.”

 

_ It’s not true, Compassion, it can’t be true, I haven’t killed you, not you - Andraste’s tits, Compassion, I forgive you. For everything. This isn’t true. It can’t be true, it can’t be, it can’t. _

 

Silence.

 

Silence with nothing but the vibration of her arm, the crackle of its power, the sparks that are burning small holes into her armour every time they leap from the mark’s core.

 

Then, a voice, small and quiet.

 

_ It’s true, little bird. I am sorry. _

 

The sob that breaks from Hawke’s throat is so intense that she doubles over, her left hand searing into painful life as she feels the truth run through her like poisonous flame. She has killed the kindest force in the world. She has killed a piece of Andraste’s love. She has killed the greatest friend that she has ever had.

 

She is a cancer upon the world.

 

She isn't even an  _interesting_ mistake. She's a catastrophic one.

 

“Hawke.”

 

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t deserve an answer. She should let the mark consume her, destroy her, turn her to dust just like she turned all of those Qunari to dust, she is ruin and destruction and must receive everything she has given to the world.

 

“Hawke. I can fix this.”

 

His voice reaches Hawke slowly; she blinks, turns, looks into golden eyes and a desperate face, the only person in her world who understands what it feels like to be this terrible.

 

“Do you trust me?” Anders asks, holding her face in his hands.

 

 _Yes,_ her soul sings.

 

Hawke nods.

 

\---

 

Hawke wakes to the sound of choral singing, as the morning service comes to a close in the Winter Palace’s chapel. At this distance it is formless, wordless, nothing more than a rising and falling of gentle melody. There's no mistaking the location - the voices singing are soft and lilting in that Orlesian way - or the hour - she knows the morning chant by heart, now.

 

But there's still a chance it isn't real.

 

So she lies there with her eyes still closed, clinging to the sound, until it falls away and she is left alone.

 

Alive. Yes, she thinks that she is alive. That this is real.

 

But she's alone.

 

_ Compassion? _

 

Hawke waits.

 

Hawke waits, and Hawke waits, and there is no reply.

 

She remembers the day Compassion found her. 

 

She’s been in Kirkwall a year and a half, and she, Carver and Varric have gone to help Aveline with some extra patrols. They’re in Sundermount, not far from Merrill’s clan, where the Veil is thin and demons can rise from the earth if so much as a pebble disturbs it.

 

One of them, a shade, has sliced so deeply into Varric’s side that Hawke can see his liver. She knows how to heal simple wounds; it isn’t enough. She pours healing potions into his mouth, into the wound itself, and nothing happens save for the mixing of the thinner red with the thick, sticky mass of blood.

 

Hawke has only known Varric for three months.

 

She would already die for him, if he asked. Would already follow him to the ends of the earth. She’s known it since the day he shot a pickpocket in the shoulder. Since he swanned in and sweet-talked her and Carver like it was nothing.

 

Then a voice:  _ it’s alright. I will help you. Trust me. _

 

It could have been a demon. She should have said no. But it was Varric - so she didn’t. She opened whatever it was within herself that was left to be opened, and let Compassion in.

 

Now she’s gone, and Hawke isn’t sure she likes this world.

 

Because this world bears a question, terrible and aching, one that she must know the answer to even if it kills her all over again.

 

Is Compassion alright?

 

Did she kill her?

 

Did she kill the spirit who has saved the lives of everyone she loved, a thousand times over?

 

The spirit who kept her alive despite the Veil itself trying to tear through her core?

 

She has to know. She has to know, but asking the question seems too hard, too terrible, and maybe it would be better if she had died after all, and never had to hear the answer.

 

Hawke opens her eyes.

 

“Hello, love,” Anders says, kneeling down next to her. The room is bright, but she can see the faint play of power over his skin, shimmering like a scattering of iridescent dust. “Stay there for just a moment.”

 

He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to Hawke’s forehead, and she sobs.

 

Because she knows that magic. She knows that magic like she knows her own voice. She knows it like she knows his heart and Cullen’s and Bethany’s laughter and Merrill’s smile and Varric’s grin and Carver’s sigh.

 

“You’ve got her,” she chokes out, grabbing his hand with her right. “She’s alright. You’ve got her.”

 

Anders’s lips part, and he nods. “I have. Hawke, I - I am so sorry.”

 

“Is she alright? Anders, is she alright?”

 

“She says,” he murmurs, letting the magic fade from his hands, “‘I am fine, little bird. I will...love him, for you, like he deserves.’”

 

His voice breaks as he says it, but Hawke believes every word, she knows that voice in his even though his hasn’t changed, not like with Justice, he’s  _ whole  _ again and if all it took was breaking herself then she’ll break a thousand times over.

 

“Good,” she says, in as Aveline a tone as she can muster, which isn't very much. It's a long time before she manages to add, “Can I sit up?”

 

Anders nods, and slips his arm under her shoulder, lifting her. When the room spins, and she feels unsteady, Hawke instinctively lifts her arm to brace herself against his chest. She doesn’t reach out with a hand - but with the bandaged stump of her elbow.

 

“Hawke,” Anders says softly, catching her. “It’s going to be alright.”

 

She laughs; leans her head against his shoulder. “I’m alive, Anders. I think it’s worth the price.”

 

Anders cradles her against his chest, the aura over his skin flaring as if to embrace her within his own arms. “You’re weak,” he says, chin bumping against the top of her head, “and dehydrated. But you can do what you need to.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Whatever that is. We're with you no matter what.”

 

There’s a question in it; his hands tighten as he says it, as if he’s afraid, though what outcome he fears Hawke couldn’t truly say.

 

“I think,” she says, moving the remains of her left arm, “we’ve all lost enough.”

 

\---

 

Inquisitor Marian Hawke does not wait for Arl Teagan and Enchanter Vivienne to stop ranting at Josephine before saying her piece. She lifts her hand and lets a bolt of lightning crackle up to the ceiling, silencing the debate and making more than a few people jump in their seats. She’ll apologise to Josephine later.

 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” she recites, her voice carrying through the chamber even though it still shakes, evne though it's hoarse and small. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

 

Hawke plucks Justinia's writ from under her arm and slams the book down onto the table, just like Cassandra did all those years ago.

 

"The Maker’s will has been written. Enough blood has been shed. The righteous women and men who have fought to save this world from complete destruction have earned their peace.”

 

Looking up, she meets Dorian’s eyes, and finds them gleaming. There will not be peace for him, she suspects. But she can do nothing about that. Next to him, Leliana is smiling, and next to her, Alistair has tilted his head in thought.

 

“I will not deny them it any longer,” Hawke says, turning to face the members of the Inquisition behind her. They are the ones who matter now. “Ambassador Montilyet. The remaining wealth of the Inquisition is to be used to ensure that every single one of its members, be they soldier or civilian, is to be resettled into a place and position of their choosing, within reason.”

 

Josephine’s eyes widen. “A-as you say, Inquisitor.”

 

“As soon as that is done,” Hawke says, “the Inquisition will be disbanded. These are my final commands.”

 

The room erupts into discussion, but she has already started walking forwards, one hand reaching out for Cullen’s, the other arm tucking into Anders’s elbow. They leave the hall together, ignoring the cries and questions and challenges, and do not look back.

 

It isn't easy.

 

They do it anyway.

 

\---

 

On the journey away from Orlais, Varric pulls his horse up alongside her and puts his hand on hers.

 

"I'm proud of you, Waffles," he says. It's the first thing he's said to her in a long time; he pulled away from her, she knows, when the mark was at its worst and her love for everyone was turning into its own form of madness.

 

Hawke raises an eyebrow at him. "For not dying?"

 

"For being willing to."

 

"I've always been willing to die, Varric," she scoffs, trying to pull her hand away. He holds it fast.

 

"No, you haven't. You're terrified of it. Always have been, even when you thought you couldn't die. Come on. I know you, Hawke. I don't need to make this shit up. You're already enough of a mess without me adding to it."

 

She smiles lopsidedly, and laughs. "Do something for me, Varric."

 

"Anything."

 

"Go home."

 

He frowns at her, then looks over at Anders and Cullen. "Guess you can't, eh?"

 

"Not all homes are made equal," Hawke replies, squeezing his hand. "I love Kirkwall. I love it more than I've ever loved any other place. But not more than I love them. And I could never make them go back there."

 

"Yeah," Varric sighs, squeezing her hand and sitting up on his mount, "besides, I'd rather not go to war with Starkhaven again. Be a bit of a shadow over my first few years as Viscount."

 

"You agreed?"

 

He grimaces. "Under duress. Our beloved Guard-Captain mentioned something involving a fishhook and my nether-regions."

 

"Creative."

 

"That's Aveline for you."

 

Hawke turns and looks at him, taking in every inch of his too-strong jaw, his warm eyes, and the smile that's slowly starting to return to his lips. "I love you, Varric."

 

"I know. I'll miss you too."

 

\---

 

“Mama,” Bethany says, the day they get back to Skyhold, “what happened to your arm? And why is she gone?”

 

Hawke gathers Bethany in her arms and turns her, pointing her towards Anders, so she can see the magic that Hawke can't. “Your Dad saved her life,” she says, because there’s no hiding anything from the girl who can see through the Veil. “She was dying too.”

 

“So she’s safe.”

 

Nodding, Anders sits down next to them. “She is.”

 

“And Mama’s arm?”

 

“Is no longer killing her,” Cullen says, taking a seat on the other side. He’s out of armour now, a fact that Hawke is still struggling to get used to.

 

Digesting this with a serious expression, Bethany looks at each of them in turn and nods. “Mama is not dying. Dad can fix people again.” Her eyes fall upon Cullen. “Father is happy.”

 

_ I told you. I told you she’d know. _

 

The rapture that illuminates Cullen’s face at the simple, pure acceptance is almost as beautiful as the love racing in her chest.

 

“Yes,” Cullen says, a moment later, his voice hoarse with astonishment. “Yes, I am.”

 

Sometimes, it really is that simple.

So long as you ignore everything it took to get to this point.

 

It takes weeks to move everyone out of Skyhold, but Hawke watches most of them from her bedroom, ordered to rest by the combined forces of her physician, her daughter and a small army of friends and loved ones.

 

Many of the Inquisition’s members go to the Chantry, thanks to Leliana - some go to Kirkwall to aid the new Viscount - others travel with Cassandra to see the Seekers of Truth remain strong. Each day, Skyhold becomes just a little bit quieter. Hawke doesn’t mind. It’s hard to see it as the same, since Solas…

 

Well.

 

Even still, Hawke refuses to leave until, as per her command, every single person is seen to safety. Some of the homes are temporary, but everyone is happy. They will get their peace, the peace that they deserve.

 

But eventually, there is no one left but the four of them, and it's time to find out what home is apart from each other.

 

\---

 

At first, they get a cottage, far enough from Cullen’s family that they can’t drop in, and close enough that his siblings don’t lynch him for it.

 

They last three weeks in the house before one of them snaps out of boredom.

 

“We write down what we want,” Hawke says, when the three of them end up sitting around the table in the dining room, goblets in their hands. “That way, none of us try and compromise before we’ve even said anything.”

 

“I don’t think -” Cullen begins, cut off the moment that Anders says, “You would.”

 

Despite her fatigue, Hawke laughs softly. “I’ll get some paper.”

 

None of them have to remind each other to be honest. They write exactly what they want, without hesitation, and maybe it’s a blessing from Andraste that they aren’t so different after all. Even Bethany’s.

 

When they try the second time, home comes a lot more easily to them. Because it isn’t a small cottage near South Reach. It’s a whole Bannorn, because when you ask the King of Ferelden if he might have any land you could use to settle, he apparently isn’t lighthanded with his generosity. And all it costs them is dinner.

 

Well. Dinner and.

 

What Alistair gives them is a huge swathe of farmland, and none of them know the first thing about farming, but that doesn’t matter - the farm isn’t for them to run. It’s for the people that come, slowly and surely, to live in the Herald’s Bannorn.

 

The first few months are tense. Putting mages and templars in the same place - especially mages who have lost everything and templars who are trying desperately to come off lyrium  - is volatile, even now, and even though all of their first patients are ex-Inquisition.

 

But little by little, bit by bit, people start to see the Bannorn as a safe place.

 

The first group of templars build a Chantry on the farmland. A small building, and a modest one, but built of local stone that makes the soft words of the Chant resound through the chambers. One of them takes vows as a Sister and begins to preach. Hawke never misses a sermon; Anders never goes to a single one. Cullen, diplomatically, falls somewhere in the middle.

 

Over time, they manage to find more mages who were thought lost, more templars who fled rather than making it to the Inquisition. When Cassandra finally starts to help those made Tranquil against their will to be freed, she brings them as well, a whole new set of farm cottages given over to the women and men who are part Seeker and part not.

 

The mages make them feel as welcome as they ever were in the circles, and help them learn to recover what power they can, if they can; the templars help them through the changing and rolling emotions that come the moment the Tranquility is lifted. In many ways, those who were Tranquil become the core that holds the farm together. When they arrive, Anders enters the Chantry once - and only once - to place a plaque with Karl's name on it.

 

The days are long, and hard, and there is nowhere that Hawke would rather be.

 

\---

 

And in a chamber hidden beneath a supposedly-abandoned mountain fortress, a woman in a Keeper’s robes leans over a map peppered with wolf-headed pins, her pointed ears gleaming in the candlelight.

 

“No,” she says, her voice hard and soft and lilting and stoic all at once. “I will not see the People become like him. I will not see all this repeated. We have been ground into the heel of humankind for centuries, enslaved all over again. It would be so easy to give in to that. We will not. We will look at our masters, and we will forgive them. We will not kill them to reclaim the world as our own, just like he did.”

 

Around the table, several figures nod. At the elf’s side, a Qunari with horns almost as wide as his shoulders grins, and claps his hand onto the shoulder of his lieutenant with a gleeful shake.

 

“Fighting words, Boss,” he says, inclining his head to her. “So. What’s the plan?”

 

The Dalish woman frowns in determination. “We stop Fen’Harel. By any means necessary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.
> 
> I didn't intend for this to be so long.
> 
> If you read all of it, whether you left kudos and comments or whether you just giggled to yourself alone, thank you. If you read any of it, thank you still.
> 
> This has reminded me how much I love Dragon Age and how big a part of my life it is, so I'm truly grateful for that. I'm grateful for getting carried away. I'm overwhelmed by how much you've enjoyed me doing that.
> 
> You are great, and wonderful, and Compassion thinks you're awesome.
> 
> <3


End file.
